Plain to See
by bluecharlotte
Summary: "You know you can tell me anything, right?" The stress of college and expectations has put Blaine in a dark place, but he refuses to let Kurt find out...even though he may be the only one who can help. Warnings for cutting, heavy depression, & suicidal themes. Future!Klaine.
1. my thoughts are so tempting

_Tuesday, September 11._

His wrist burns with relapse.

He tries to ignore it, but the pain is no longer a satisfying throb; it's a hot, stinging annoyance. He should've sliced his upper arm instead, he decides (it's less noticeable and the skin is stronger so it stings less), but there's something about the smooth, vulnerable canvas of his forearm that makes him want to riddle it with imperfections. The rest of him is flawed, so why not that, too?

He really shouldn't have done it again. When was the last time? Three years ago, four? He's not sure. But he'd been thinking about it so much lately, and he'd _needed_ it. Of course, it stings like _hell_ now, the four thin red lines across his left wrist, and he really, really should've cut his upper arm, because the relief just isn't _there_.

After a moment of consideration Blaine reaches back down beside him for his razor, bringing it up to rest against his left bicep. Feeling more disgusted with himself than ever, he pulls it across the skin _one_, _two_, _three_ times. It's still not enough and he thinks of what a worthless _coward_ he is not to cut deeper, always so fucking _afraid_. So he presses the metal harder into his skin and drags it across, not even looking at his arm anymore, all precision gone as he adds _four, five, six_.

His skin has parted away from the razor, the lines thicker than before, and as blood starts to bubble up he feels the throb of release. Blaine looks down and watches as warm red liquid trickles in thin lines down his arm from the haphazard cuts. He can breathe deeper now and he kind of hates it, because this isn't the way things are supposed to be. This isn't the way _New York_ and _college_ are supposed to be.

He's such a fucking freak.

Kurt would be revolted if he knew.

_Thursday, September 13._

"Hey Blaine, guess how I did on my English essay!" Kurt calls from the entranceway, and Blaine, sitting at their kitchen counter, can't bring himself to respond. Because of course Kurt's doing great, why wouldn't he be? Goddamn_ great_. Blaine is the only one struggling; he's the imperfection. He clenches his jaw and hopes that Kurt won't notice that something's off, that he'll just tell him how he did and save him from the necessity of speech. No such luck. "Blaine, are you okay?"

_Well, isn't that the question of the year? _"I'm fine," he says shortly, but his tone screams otherwise. He hears Kurt sigh behind him as his bag clunks to the floor in the hall.

"No, you're not. Do you want to talk about it?"

He forces the tremor of anger out of his voice as he replies. "Not really." _I got another D. I don't get D's. _"Just a bad day."_ I'm supposed to be smart. I'm a fucking failure. _And though it's the last thing he wants to hear about, "How was your essay?"

"I—are you sure you don't want to talk? I know how it can help to let things out."

_The hell it does. _He's only mad at himself, but Kurt's there and asking and _succeeding_ and Blaine is so pissed right now. "_Yes_, I'm sure. God, would you stop _worrying_ for once in your life? Everything's fucking _fine_."

He's too much of a moron and a coward to even look at Kurt as he says this, but he hears Kurt's surprised intake of breath and sees him stiffen out of the corner of his eye. He expects his boyfriend to yell at him or make some snarky remark—almost hopes he does, actually, because he deserves it—but Kurt sounds hushed and almost shaken when he finally speaks. "Okay." He seems to consider moving toward Blaine for a moment before giving up and adding, "I'll be in the living room then."

Blaine's sure that he just ruined the rest of Kurt's day. Later he'll apologize and give Kurt a warm smile and say he was just in a shitty mood and he never meant to snap at him, and Kurt will forgive him easily because he's just a great person. But right now Blaine sits and broods, because he knows that no matter how much he apologizes for it, he's still really just an asshole.

_Saturday, September 15._

He doesn't want to move. He doesn't want to do _anything_. It'd been hard enough last night convincing Kurt that he was fine wearing long sleeves to bed ("as long as you don't burn up, I guess") and avoiding their planned night of long, drawn-out, wonderful sex ("it's okay, I don't mind, really," even though he clearly _does_). So now Blaine really needs to do something to make up for it; in other words, he needs to get his ass out of bed and make breakfast for Kurt, like he usually would. But for some stupid reason he just can't make himself _move_. He wants to lie in a haze forever and hide in the world of warm cotton sheets and Kurt curled into his side, where nothing is wrong—including himself. So he turns his alarm off and falls back asleep, cursing himself for it all the while.

When he wakes up two hours later it's to an empty bed and the sound of a blender whirring in another room. "_Fuck_."

He hurries into the kitchen and there's Kurt, with smoothies and French toast and coffee and a warm smile. _Shit_. He smiles back hesitantly as they exchange good mornings and perches beside him on one of the stools at the counter. He bites his lip as he looks down at the delicious breakfast Kurt has set out for them, feeling like the most awful boyfriend in the world. "This looks awesome."

"Thanks! I know how much you love French toast, so you know. Oh, and we even have cinnamon for your coffee! Weird, huh? I thought we were out."

Blaine nods at this, mumbling something in agreement but hating himself inside. He had used cinnamon as an excuse to leave the week before, saying he was getting coffee with cinnamon from a café down the street. And then he'd snuck into an alley and stared at nothing for twenty minutes and tried to smoke a cigarette from that pack he'd bought on a whim at the beginning of sophomore year and coughed and smoked some more and felt even shittier. But yeah, it's weird that they aren't out of cinnamon.

After they've both taken a few bites of French toast and sipped coffee and browsed over the new issue of _Vogue_ in companionable silence, Blaine decides he has to say something. "Hey, Kurt?" When Kurt meets his eyes and nods him on he continues. "Look, I just wanted to say I'm really sorry I've been so... difficult lately. I've been stressed but so have you and I know it's not fair for me to take it out on you." Blaine looks down, unable to hold Kurt's intensely forgiving gaze, and moves his fork mindlessly across his plate. "So, yeah, I just... I'm trying not to be such a downer." He swallows, hating that his voice just almost cracked and that he can feel the ache of tears building behind his eyes. Before he can push them away and bring himself to look up, Kurt's hand is pressed reassuringly to his own.

"You're not a downer, Blaine! It's okay to be stressed, really. You don't have to apologize. I'm sure I've done enough stupid things when I'm worried to balance you out."

Kurt chuckles and Blaine knows this shouldn't be a big deal, but he can't think of _any_ stupid things Kurt has done and the cuts on his arm feel so real and obvious and the bad grades he's been getting swarm in his mind and he can practically smell cigarette smoke and Kurt is being so _nice_ but he would be so _ashamed_ and _disgusted_ by him if he knew, and suddenly there are tears swarming in his eyes that he can't stop. He's still looking down at his plate as he nods, shoulders tensed. He hopes Kurt won't notice and will just go back to eating, but of course he does; he's _Kurt_ and he notices everything about Blaine.

"Blaine? Are you...?" Kurt doesn't seem to want to say the word—_crying_—probably in case he isn't. But Blaine really looks like he _is_; he shakes his head, jaw clenched, and rests his left elbow on the counter to lean his face into his hand, hiding from Kurt behind it. Kurt hears the shaky breath he takes afterward. "Oh, _honey_—" Kurt's fork immediately clatters onto his plate as he stands, enveloping his boyfriend in a comforting embrace that has never failed to make him feel better. A strange, intense feeling of relief rushes through Blaine even as he scolds himself for accepting comfort he doesn't deserve. He presses himself helplessly into Kurt's warmth and holds tight, willing the tears away.

He just loves Kurt _so damn much_ and doesn't want anything to ever ruin that, but he knows what an ass he's been because school is so much harder than he'd expected, and sometimes everything just _sucks_. And he's still so scared that Kurt will find someone else, some guy who's ten times better than Blaine who'll sweep him off his feet, because New York is so big and how could he _not?_ It isn't until Kurt is hushing him and telling him how wrong he is and murmuring about how much he loves him that Blaine even realizes he's said these things out loud. "_Fuck_, I'm sorry."

Kurt laughs—actually _laughs, _and it's genuine and warm and happy. "For what, being human?"

Blaine pulls away, wiping his eyes ashamedly and shaking his head. "I don't know. Ruining breakfast?"

The gentle hands wiping tears from his face and the warm smile Kurt gives him could brighten even the darkest of days. "I wouldn't be so sure about that. Look at all the food we've got left! Breakfast is most definitely not ruined."

For the first time in a while, Blaine thinks that maybe everything can be okay again.

That is, until later that day when he refuses sex _again_, because there are ten prominent red lines on his left arm that Kurt absolutely _cannot_ know are there. He knows that his boyfriend would make everything else go away, that he'd feel infinitely better, and he wants to be with Kurt more than anything. Yes, Blaine hates that he's saying no, and he can't wait until his arm is healed enough not to be noticeable.

But a part of him really wants to cut again, and it doesn't care about anything else.

_Sunday, September 16._

_Nothing_ is okay. He has piles of schoolwork to do and there were countless hours in which he could've finished it, and yet here he is again at one in the morning not even halfway done. Blaine feels wretched and useless staring at his computer screen, having absolutely no idea what to write for a psychology paper that's due in two days. It was assigned weeks ago, but like every other bit of work Blaine has had recently, he hasn't done it. He has had no motivation; even at his desk when he should be working he'll be unable to concentrate and end up fooling around and spacing out, thinking about anything and everything else. It's like he has an aversion to absorbing any new information.

What's worse is that a few times in the last month he has sneaked out and smoked a cigarette without even knowing why. He's not sure if he's addicted—and he fucking _hates_ cigarettes—or if it just feels like release in his mind, but when he smokes his problems seem to evaporate for a while. It's endlessly calming; that is, until it ends. Then he wastes thirty minutes brushing his teeth and washing his mouth out in a panic, praying to any god there is that Kurt won't notice the taste later. It's exhausting and he doesn't know why he keeps doing it, but at the same time he can't stop.

Other times Blaine has spent precious minutes doing nothing but thinking about hurting himself and wondering why he bothers trying at all. Once a couple weeks ago he came home to an empty apartment and, after locking himself in the bathroom for twenty minutes and coming close to cutting, spent a whole hour thinking about it and wondering what Kurt would say if he found out he had. He imagines it wouldn't be pretty.

He hasn't told Kurt about any of this, of course. He doesn't want to consider what his boyfriend would think if he knew how bad things have really gotten. Kurt doesn't even know he used to cut himself when he was a teenager; the scars are almost indistinguishable and he'd never bothered mentioning it. But it's not like it matters. It'd been before Dalton anyway, in a time when bruises and insults and spray paint and even broken bones were the ordinary, when he'd felt even more lost than he does now. _Now_ things are better, he keeps telling himself, because he has Kurt and NYU and friends and the city and _happiness_. But sometimes it's hard to believe.

This is definitely one of those times. He's sitting in the kitchen of the apartment he shares with Kurt at one thirty in the morning, laptop and notebook open on the table. He has been struggling through calculus problems and typing randomly, occasionally wondering whether he should just go to bed. Kurt had turned in at ten thirty, having finished all of his work earlier that weekend like any smart student would. Blaine doesn't usually tell Kurt how late he stays up, and this is no exception. Except for maybe three times when his boyfriend has walked in and found him working late at night, Blaine has given the impression that he goes to sleep soon after Kurt. A few times a week this is true, like when they have sex or when he isn't too far behind on things, but much of the time it isn't. Even when he actually lies down earlier Blaine often can't sleep, and will spend up to two or three hours tossing and turning and staring and thinking.

Now he squeezes his eyes shut and furrows his brow and runs a hand over his unshaven face and through his hair, hating, hating, _hating_ where he is. It's not that he doesn't understand the material; he just had all the time in the world and fucking _wasted_ it. He hates that he's doing this so late at night and can't stand the thought of all the things about him that have gone wrong lately. He hates that he's such a failure. He hates _himself_. And his arm itches. He presses a hand to it absentmindedly, savoring the pain and fighting the urge to add more lines to the count. He deserves to bleed a little more, and he can't focus on anything right now except the fact that there's a razor blade in the bathroom calling his name.

At some point Blaine realizes that he hasn't written anything down for at least ten minutes. His head throbs with the knowledge that he has more to do, but he still can't make himself concentrate. Numbers and words and memories swirl confusedly through his mind, and he can't think. Before he's totally conscious of what he's doing Blaine is sneaking through his and Kurt's bedroom and into the bathroom and locking the door behind him. Then he's pulling out a razor blade from a drawer in the vanity and staring at himself in the mirror as he slices his arm open again in five new places. He glares at his reflection in revulsion as he drags the blade back and forth over his bicep and feels the painful tug of the sharpness against his skin.

He hates this. The love of his life is in a warm bed in the next room and he has a massive amount of work to do, and here he is cutting himself in the bathroom like a pathetic loser.

But he feels _so_ much better.

Blaine is more certain than ever that Kurt can never, _ever_ find out.

_Thursday, September 20._

It's one of those rare days when they're both back to the apartment early and they have nothing planned, so it's just _them_ for hours and hours and Blaine is such a fucking _idiot_. He can tell Kurt is getting worried. They've gone longer without having sex before, but it's always because they're either too busy or too tired. Recently their lack of a sex life has been entirely based on Blaine saying he's _not up for it_. What sucks the most is that he really, _really_ is. He wants Kurt _so_ badly.

But here he is sitting on their couch, mindlessly watching some random program on television while Kurt takes a nap in their bedroom. The only thing he can think of is his boyfriend, lying splayed on his back on their bed, dark hair forgotten and tousled, shirt riding up over his toned, pale stomach, a little crease between his eyebrows as he dreams about something bothersome. His pink lips are probably slightly parted and totally kissable, and the muscles in his arms are flexing as he stretches and turns, and this is not a productive train of thought because Blaine is already half-hard.

Maybe he can risk it. Just turn off the light and hope for the best. It's not like Kurt pays much attention to his arms, anyway.

Yeah, he can risk it.

So he walks across their apartment and quietly through the bedroom to the bathroom for an entirely different reason than he had on Sunday night. He checks his breath and his hair and _do I look okay? _The cuts aren't going to start bleeding but they're clear in the light. He can feel them when he passes his hand over his skin, but to someone caught up in lust they wouldn't be very notable. _Okay_.

Then he pulls his shirt back on and, a thrill going through him at what he is about to do, sneaks into their bedroom, quietly turning off the lamp that Kurt had left on. The room is for the most part shrouded in darkness, the curtains closed to the sun outside, and he can just see Kurt's outline on the bed. Two strides and he is sliding over next to his boyfriend and lying down to face him. He traces his hand over Kurt's palm lovingly and then securely laces their fingers together, and for a moment he thinks maybe he should just try to sleep.

But then Kurt's squeezing his hand and his eyes are opening. "Hi."

"Hi."

"What's up?" It's cautious and uncertain, and Kurt turns on his side to face Blaine as he says it. His bright eyes search his boyfriend's for a moment, and immediately Blaine is lost and forgets the world outside of Kurt.

"I don't know. I just kept thinking... about you. How you're right here." He edges close enough that their noses almost touch. Staring at his boyfriend's perfect mouth just inches away, he can't help but think he's not good enough for this god lying beside him. Breathlessly he adds, "And we have a whole afternoon to waste." Kurt's blue-hazel eyes are sparkling at him in the dark.

"Oh, we do? I hadn't realized."

One side of Blaine's mouth turns up, and for once it's a real smile that reaches his eyes. He doesn't drop Kurt's gaze for a second as he mutters quietly against his lips. "Mm-hmm. I guess I was just wondering, you know, if maybe you—"

All of his insecurities are forgotten the moment that Kurt's lips delve his, and Blaine loses himself in the heat of Kurt's body, the intensity of feeling so much, the steady comfort of human contact and _love_. And for a while he just _forgets_.

Later, when they're tumbled together and grinning and sharing slow kisses and almost falling asleep before they've even had dinner, Kurt doesn't say anything about the raised lines. Blaine's not sure whether to be ecstatic or upset that he's so good at hiding.

And after Kurt's proximity is lost and he's alone in the living room with nothing to keep him from his thoughts, he starts to hate how easy it is. Because that means there's nothing stopping him from doing it over and _over_ again and digging himself deeper into the mess he has made.

**A/N: This is most definitely not the end! I'm not sure exactly where this fic is going, but there is more and don't worry, Kurt will definitely catch on that something's wrong soon. I wasn't going to post this immediately but I caved, so. :)**


	2. swimming in the smoke

**A/N: So, I ended up writing from Kurt's point of view, but their will be mostly Blaine's in the future. If you were wondering, the chapter titles are song lyrics; the last one is from "Pieces" by Sum 41, and this one is from "Burning in the Skies" by Linkin Park. Both of them are amazing songs, by the way. ;) My next update will definitely not be as soon as this one was, since I have lots of schoolwork, but I'll do my best. Anyway. Hope you like it! :)**_  
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_Friday, September 21._

"Blaine, we're gonna be leaving in a few minutes, so you should probably—" Kurt cuts himself off when he enters their bedroom in time to see a shirtless Blaine disappear into the bathroom and slam the door shut behind him. "Um... are you okay?"

"Yeah! Just, um, I forgot something! I'll be out in a minute!"

_Something like your shirt?_ "Okay..."

When Blaine finally emerges he's fidgeting with the ends of his sleeves, and he gives Kurt a tight, forced smile before he speaks. "Ready to go?"

"Yeah. Are you sure you _want_ to go? Because it's not like we have to; we could just stay home."

"No, no, of course I want to go! Let's go."

Kurt is confused.

_Saturday, September 22._

Blaine has made him dinner tonight, and Kurt couldn't be more pleased. It's delicious; there's gnocchi and steak and a garden salad with homemade healthy Italian dressing. He even added goat cheese, just the way Kurt likes it. But as they eat Blaine is frowning down at his plate and Kurt's worried because he has no idea why.

"Blaine, is everything all right?"

The curly haired brunette looks up, eyebrows raised and warm, dark hazel eyes innocent, any trace of a frown gone. "Yeah! Great." Then, hesitantly, "Is this any good?"

"Are you kidding? It's delicious. You even remembered the cheese."

Blaine smiles bashfully. "How could I forget? I mean, _really_." Kurt rolls his eyes at Blaine's sarcastic tone, smiling. "Oh, and I've been meaning to ask you, did you see that blonde guy at the restaurant last night? He was totally checking you out, it was driving me crazy. He was sitting right behind us..." As Blaine talks Kurt listens, and he forgets that Blaine ever looked upset.

_Sunday, September 23._

Kurt stifles a groan when Blaine pulls him closer. His boyfriend's body is pressed up against his and Kurt feels like he's burning up with the heat coursing through his veins. Because Blaine's hand is cradling the back of his head and his fingers are rubbing soothing circles at his hip and his smooth lips are tugging and his tongue is rubbing hotly and damn, Kurt is getting _dizzy_. His left hand is already pressed to the small of Blaine's back but the other is free, and to have something to ground him he raises it up and grips Blaine's left arm tightly. He feels the muscle move beneath his fingers and Blaine's breath hitches, and a few seconds have gone by before he realizes that Blaine has tensed up. And stopped kissing him.

Kurt releases his grip, blinks his eyes open, and pulls away to see Blaine frozen in place a few inches from him, his hands still on Kurt and his eyes wide. "What happened to your arm?"

"Huh?" Blaine looks and sounds totally bewildered, strangely enough.

"Your arm, why does it hurt?"

"Oh, uh... that. Um. I don't know. I think I hit it on something today. No big deal." Blaine's tone is strangely disconcerting, and Kurt is about to ask another question when—"I think I'm gonna go take a shower, see you in a bit." And abruptly he has ducked out of Kurt's embrace and disappeared into the bedroom, leaving Kurt to stand in slight astonishment. _What just happened?_

_Monday, September 24._

Kurt's last class ends at four thirty today, and he heads back home with Blaine on his mind. He's still bewildered by the things he's been doing, but he thinks he's probably imagining the majority of it. When he finally gets there he unlocks the door and enters slowly, craning his neck to see if his boyfriend is there yet; he should be. But after calling and getting no answer and doing a quick search, Kurt realizes that the place is empty.

Blaine doesn't walk in until a half hour later, at which point Kurt is panicking slightly because he has called him and found his phone in their bedroom. But the brunette enters as if it's the most normal thing in the world, looking tired as he yawns and slumps down onto their couch. His hair isn't gelled but free and unruly, and he has apparently come back to their apartment with nothing but his keys, a box whose outline Kurt can make out in his pocket, and the clothes on his back—a long-sleeved green sweater and dark wash jeans. Kurt must admit that his boyfriend looks absolutely adorable like this, but the tiredness still makes him sad. He moves toward him quietly from where he'd been standing in the kitchen. "Hi, Blaine."

Blaine jumps at hearing his name, and a strong sense of unease floods Kurt's being when he sees the initial look in his eyes—indisputably, it's _panic_. But the look is gone as soon as Kurt catches a glimpse of it, and then his boyfriend is talking. "Hey Kurt! I was just out, um, taking a walk. I swear I'll never get over the fact that we're actually _living_ in _New York_."

Blaine is smiling dazzlingly at him and Kurt knows that yes, it can be hard to believe, but something still seems _off_. "I know, right? And it's been so nice out lately, too." And since it's really the only thing he can think to ask about, "What's that in your pocket, Tic Tacs?"

When Blaine glances back up at him Kurt sees something desperate in his gaze, and his response is rushed. "Yeah, actually, I bought them at that shop down on third, by the music school." But he doesn't make any motion to take the box out of his pocket. And when Kurt starts to step around to the back of the couch, intending to give Blaine's surely aching shoulders a massage, all of a sudden his recipient is on his feet and heading out of the room. "I'm gonna go clean up in the bathroom. I feel _so_ gross." He makes a face and Kurt laughs a little because it's adorable, but as the minutes drag on he starts to kind of wonder why Blaine had to brush his teeth so badly when he has just gotten himself Tic Tacs. And a small, scared part of him worries about the panic and desperation, and isn't sure whether all of what Blaine has said is true.

_Tuesday, September 25._

They're cleaning up after breakfast when he notices it. "Do you smell smoke?"

"Smoke?" Blaine looks completely taken aback. "No, not at all. What do you mean, smoke? Do you think we burned something?"

"No, like... cigarette smoke. I thought this whole building was nonsmoking, but I swear I just caught a whiff of it..." Kurt leaves the kitchen and walks through their apartment, taking a few deep breaths. When he returns to Blaine, who is standing rather stiffly by the kitchen table, he stills for a moment before shrugging helplessly. "I don't know. Maybe I was imagining it."

Blaine lets out a long sigh. "That's weird."

"Wait..." He moves back toward the center of the kitchen, breathing in deeply again. "I think the smell might've been stronger in here—Blaine?" The curly haired man had abruptly left the room.

"Just taking out the trash! I know we didn't do it yet, so I thought I'd—" Kurt doesn't catch any more of his words, because Blaine has shut the door of their bedroom behind him.

There must be some kind of explanation for how weird he's been acting lately. There _must_ be. But Kurt hasn't found it yet, and he's kind of afraid to start looking.

_Wednesday, September 26._

Kurt is really starting to worry. He knows that the past few weeks have been really tough for Blaine with all of his classes, because it's his junior year now and he probably has more work than ever. Kurt has been stressed too, sure, but he has been in college for a year longer and at this point he's mostly handling it. Blaine, on the other hand, has been subtly avoiding conversations about what he's up to and sometimes even avoiding _Kurt_ when he gets home. And he's kind of freaking out about it. It's not that they're not as close as ever, because they are—it's just that a certain element of their relationship is different. And he doesn't know why. This is what he tells Rachel when he gets a call from her on Wednesday. That is, once they've gotten generally caught up and past the huge explosion of words out of her mouth upon hearing his voice.

"I mean, the only time when he really lets go now is when we have sex, and that hardly counts—"

"_Kurt, I'd rather not hear all the gory details."_

"I wasn't going to—whatever. But I just... I'm really confused."

"_Well, whenever Finn is acting weird about something, I just ask him straight out."_

"Yeah, Rachel, I think I've tried that, and it hasn't gone too well so far. He never talks about it when I ask him."

"_So try again!"_

To say the least, Kurt is exhausted by the end of that conversation, and hasn't reached any kind of conclusion whatsoever.

_Thursday, September 27._

A day has gone by and Kurt is still trying to figure out how to get Blaine to open up to him. He has never really had to try very hard for that before, so this is completely new and unfamiliar. He considers talking to him after they go out with their friends on Friday, or maybe after they watch a movie on Saturday, and he even starts to plan it... but then he feels stupid. Because he's his boyfriend, right? He can ask him anything, at any time. Can't he? Isn't that what Blaine would do?

He is still wondering about this when he gets back to their apartment building on Thursday afternoon, and he climbs the two flights of stairs to their floor on autopilot. He is a meter away from their door and about to pull out his keys when he looks up and stops in his tracks. Because there's Blaine, sitting with his back against their threshold, his arms on his knees in front of him, brow furrowed as he pinches the bridge of his nose in clear deliberation.

_Now is as good a time as ever_, he thinks, and speaks in a quiet, gentle tone; "Hey." Upon hearing his voice, Blaine looks up like someone has hit him. Kurt prepares himself for a less-than-welcoming response. What he gets, though, is a warm and loving _I'm-so-happy-to-see-you_ smile that reaches his boyfriend's eyes and seems to light up his entire being. Blaine looks absolutely ecstatic as he stands, and after two strides and a tug of his hand he has pulled Kurt in for a deliciously knee-weakening kiss. When they finally pull apart for air they both savor the moment, leaning into each other and breathing the same air.

Blaine breaks the blissful silence with a whisper. "I love you."

Kurt chuckles softly, and it's a happy, _I-can't-believe-I'm-this-lucky_ sound. "I love you too." _To hell with it_, Kurt thinks, _questions can wait_. He wouldn't trade this moment for anything.

He never thinks to ask Blaine why he was sitting out there in the first place.

_Friday, September 28._

They step through the doorway of their apartment hand in hand on Friday night, exhausted but still in high spirits from a night of laughter and drinks with friends. Their eyes meet when the door closes behind them and they both know they're thinking the same thing. Within seconds Kurt has Blaine pressed up against the wall with his wrists pinned over his head.

The mood is buzzed and electric at first, both of them still slightly tipsy, so Kurt doesn't think much of it when Blaine pushes his grip off of his arms and switches their positions, sneaking his calloused hands up beneath Kurt's shirt and pressing surely into the smooth skin of his chest and lower back. He can practically see stars when Blaine edges his legs apart and rolls his hips, sending pleasure sparking through his nerves. Kurt is too distracted by the time they reach the bedroom to think twice about the fact that Blaine has turned off all the lights.

In the aftermath they breathe raggedly and grin at each other in the dark, exchanging murmured words that only lovers can. Kurt finds his boyfriend's hand and presses a kiss to it, and because he can he moves down over his wrist and up his forearm, tracing over the smooth skin with his lips. Well, mostly smooth. There are a few lines in the way.

"What are these from?" He traces over the four thin marks with a finger.

"Hm? Probably from running into a door at NYU. You know how clumsy I am."

Kurt chuckles, imagining Blaine being clueless and not watching where he's going, and presses his lips back into skin, kissing over the scratches delicately and making Blaine's breath stutter in his throat. Then he's mouthing his way up to the crook of Blaine's elbow, making the man spread out before him shiver. He doesn't realize how wrecked he has become from just this until he tries to talk and his voice comes out scratchy; "God, I _love_ how you react to me." Blaine's only response is a soft moan. He leans into his body, letting some of his weight rest on his boyfriend's chest, and slides his hands up his strong arms. Kurt hears and _feels_ a sharp intake of breath as his fingertips trace higher, almost to Blaine's biceps.

"Wait—Kurt—" Suddenly Blaine is pushing him away, _hard_. He's starting to freak out a little, thinking that he did something wrong or maybe _something happened to Blaine's arm_. A millisecond goes by and he's about to say something, eyes searching for Blaine's in the dark, when he feels warm hands gliding up his sides and his boyfriend's lips kissing hot patterns into his neck.

"Thought it was your turn." It's mumbled through a smile, and his head spins as Blaine murmurs more delicious things against his skin, compliments and promises and a few dirty things that he would never admit to having said. Blaine's scent is everywhere and their bodies are pressing together so wonderfully and the rest of the world doesn't matter, because this is what perfect feels like. Anything Kurt had been thinking flies straight out of his head, and he doesn't have the ability to worry about anything anymore.

He was probably just being paranoid anyway.

_Saturday, September 29._

They wake up late on Saturday with their limbs still entwined, and they're both pretty hung over. Kurt cringes when he realizes there's come all over his stomach and a pounding in his head. They must've passed out before they had a chance to clean anything up. Maybe they were more than just tipsy, he decides, but it doesn't really matter now.

He's watching Blaine and waiting for him to wake up when he realizes that his boyfriend has a T-shirt on. _Of course, he wouldn't want to wake up completely naked..._ Kurt chuckles to himself and smiles at the man whose arm is curled around his middle and whose hair is in totally adorable disarray. He looks completely peaceful, and Kurt doesn't have it in his heart to pull him out of that.

When Blaine's eyes blink open a few minutes later he returns Kurt's smile. "Why didn't you wake me?"

He shrugs. "You looked like you were enjoying your rest."

Blaine's smile widens. "Only because you're here with me."

Kurt blushes, feeling like a teenager again and not really caring. He traces a line over his boyfriend's shoulder. "We should take a shower together. When was the last time we did that?"

"I don't know... probably over the summer." Blaine grins, his eyes sparkling mischievously at Kurt. "That sounds like a good idea." All of a sudden the bright look is gone, and Blaine tenses up. "Actually, I kind of want to make breakfast. Um. You can go first. I think maybe pancakes."

Before Kurt has a chance to ask why or to say anything about it, Blaine has slipped from his arms and dashed out of the room.

He rolls over and buries his face in Blaine's pillow, scrunching his face up in frustration. Yet another unexplainable change of heart. He tries to think of a logical reason that Blaine wouldn't want to take a shower with him, but it's not like he's embarrassed about his body or anything; they'd had sex last night, for god's sake! That's as close as you can get to another person. And _Blaine_, of all people, could not have self-image issues. He feels like he's back to square one; his boyfriend is _still_ pulling away, even though he keeps randomly coming back. Ludicrously, Kurt thinks of the song "Hot N Cold" by Katy Perry.

_You change your mind like a girl changes clothes._

He even remembers Blaine performing that once. _How ironic._

After lying in a sort of limbo for five minutes and listening to Blaine walk around in the kitchen, he forces himself out of bed and into the shower, and then proceeds to think about the situation for the whole fifteen minutes that he spends beneath the hot water. Blaine has never distanced himself so much before that Kurt remembers, or talked about himself so little. Something in his tone, too, just seems suspicious sometimes; his explanations are often given in a rushed voice that's almost cracking, in a tone that takes on a disconcerting dubious lilt. It all feels familiar, like Kurt had known what it meant a long time ago, but he can't quite pinpoint it now.

_Yes_, he decides, one thing he knows for sure. Something is going on—something is _wrong_, more than just a lot of schoolwork and stress. And whatever it is, even if it's about _him_... Kurt's convinced that he's going to figure it out. And then he's going to fix it.

_Sunday, September 30._

"Oh, crap, we're out of coffee."

Kurt frowns, sighing as he looks over Blaine's shoulder at the lowest shelf in the cabinet to the right of their microwave. Coffee grounds are, in fact, significantly lacking. "We are. That sucks."

"I could go get some, if you want."

"Nah, I'll do it. You did it last time. And it's just down the street, anyway." When they don't have a chance to get coffee from the grocery store they just go to the café nearby. It's actually better coffee, but it's more expensive, so they avoid it when possible. Right now, however, a cab ride plus the price of the actual coffee grounds would cost more than just walking to the café to get some.

"Well, if you're sure," Blaine says, shrugging and turning around to face Kurt. Then he smirks, adding, "Be careful, though. Don't know what kind of weird people could be walking down the street at nine in the morning."

Kurt chuckles. "Yeah, weird people like me."

"Exactly."

That is how, after pulling on a pair of jeans and a warm green sweater, Kurt finds himself leaving their unit and walking down the stairs to the world outside. He hums to himself as he reaches the bottom floor and pushes open the main doors, making sure to lock them behind him before he walks down the five steps to the sidewalk.

He is a block away before he realizes: it's Sunday. The café doesn't open until ten on Sundays. It's a quarter past nine. If he keeps walking, he's going to get there in a minute or two, and then he'll be stuck waiting for 45 minutes (or more) to get one measly bag of coffee grounds.

So Kurt turns around and starts going back. He can go out again at ten, he reasons, so it's no big deal. He enjoys the sun on his face and the sound of cars passing on the street as he walks, breathing it in deeply and thinking about Blaine. He's with him in _New York. _He wonders if he'll ever get tired of it.

When he glimpses the front steps of their apartment building a little ways down the sidewalk, he slows slightly to pull his keys out of his pocket. He has been this way so many times that he knows exactly how long it will take him to get there. He's about ten seconds away from the door—the equivalent of a few yards—when he smells it; cigarette smoke, the only thing he _doesn't_ like about New York, aside from the large number of homeless people. He wrinkles his nose as he finally wrestles the keys out of the front pocket of his jeans, hoping that the smell will go away, and glances up at the building.

Someone is standing there.

It's weird, because at first the only thing he notices is that the person is smoking and they're looking in his direction. It's only when he looks back down at his keys that he realizes—_wait_._ Was that—that face—that hair—that couldn't have been—?_

He does a double take, and the guy is staring at him in shock, and there's a look of _absolute fucking panic_ in his eyes, and—holy fuck, is that really—

"_Blaine?_"

Kurt is just starting to take in what is happening when his boyfriend drops the cigarette and starts to turn around. The strange way he's been acting lately is all because of _this_. Blaine has been smoking. When he finally comes back to reality, in which his boyfriend is running away from him, he calls out his name again—"Blaine!"—but it's to no avail, because he has already spun around, and now he's yanking the front door open and going back into their apartment building. "Shit." Kurt rushes across the last stretch of sidewalk, up the steps, and into the door after him, catching a glimpse of his curly dark brown hair disappearing into the stairwell. His mind is a jumble of confused thoughts, because what the _fuck_ is going on? The only thing he can think is that Blaine was just smoking, and that slightly familiar, disconcerting tone in his voice—that had been the sound of Blaine _lying _to him. He'd just never expected that Blaine would ever lie to _him_. They're supposed to trust each other. Aren't they?

He catches up as Blaine reaches the second landing—in other words, the first floor—because he had only been speed-walking and Kurt had practically run after him. He doesn't know what Blaine had expected to gain from running away. It has only made the situation seem worse and the childishness of it has kind of pissed him off, but it doesn't really matter now. "_Blaine!_" He grabs him by the shoulder roughly, making him turn around, but when he sees the heartbroken look on his boyfriend's face he kind of regrets how sharp and angry he had sounded. Blaine's eyebrows are furrowed, his dark eyes pleading, and his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows audibly. There is a long moment during which they only stare at each other, both pairs of eyes searching and unsure. When Blaine finally speaks he sounds out of breath and disbelieving and a little afraid, the corner of his mouth pulling up in the semblance of a smile.

"Hi, Kurt."


	3. I know how it feels to lie

**A/N: Finals are OVER! :D I hope I made up for the wait with my super-long chapter. Anyway, I went back in time a bit to explain things (and build suspense, lol) but I tried to minimize it to avoid retelling events. If you see any wrong information about college classes or have any ideas for what Blaine's major should be, I'm totally open to suggestions. In case you were wondering, I haven't mentioned Kurt's college because I'm waiting to see if he gets into NYADA. ;) I'm not sure exactly when I'll update next, but hopefully before the end of February. The chapter title is from "Waiting for the End" by Linkin Park. Hope you like it!**

_Thursday, September 27._

_Don't do it, don't do it you goddamn idiot, don't do it, don't _fucking_ do it... _The door is digging into his back and his stomach is twisting anxiously and the box in his pocket will surely leave a mark on his leg, but he can't make himself get up because he knows what he'll end up doing. So he sits against his apartment door and wills dark thoughts away and swears at himself in his head.

Blaine _hates_ cigarettes. He hated them when he first saw his father smoking when he was seven, when they snuck into the pockets of kids at his old high school because they were _cool_, when bullies laughed at him and blew their repugnant smoke in his face. He hates the smell and the taste and the way it lingers. He has always hated them and he has sworn before never to touch one in his life.

Now he's addicted. He smokes in the morning before breakfast and in the afternoon when he gets home and at night when Kurt is busy studying and he's busy staring at nothing. Each time his disgust at himself increases tenfold. At first he had been doing it because he felt like shit and needed release that wouldn't leave marks, but now he actually smokes _to smoke_. And it scares him. He has restricted himself to three per day simply because he's afraid of falling deeper into the sordid mess. It's fitting, really, that he's addicted to something he hates so much; he deserves that. He deserves the torture of starting again every time he tries his hardest to stop.

Right now it's all he can do to sit still. He grinds his teeth together and shuts his eyes against the feeling_; don't do it, don't do it, not again, you said you'd quit you fucking _liar, _said you'd do it for Kurt. Do you even love Kurt, you worthless shit? Are you capable of that? You don't deserve him. What does he see in you? You don't deserve to be lo—_

"Hey."

_Oh, thank god. Kurt_. In seconds he's wrapped up in him, safe and perfect and _everything_. He tries to say something coherent, some kind of explanation, but all that will come out is an _I love you_ because he does, so much, and this is all that matters, isn't it?

He forgets the world.

_Friday, September 28._

Blaine is so_ happy_. This is just one of those amazing days, when he has left everything behind and he can just laugh and talk with his friends like anyone else. Friday nights are the best, because the week is over and there's no more freaking out about assignments and grades and _failures_. He and Kurt have the whole weekend ahead of them, which means many careless hours well spent. When they get home that night it's heavenly; they're finally _alone_, and _god_ he wants Kurt so badly.

But then he remembers: the cuts. He can think of at least ten times lately when his boyfriend has come terribly close to finding out, and it is _not_ going to happen now. There may have been a point when Blaine almost wanted him to know and help him, but now all he can see is Kurt angry, hurt, stressed, disappointed, ashamed. Of him. Because fuck, why wouldn't he be?

Kurt is drunk, though, so it's not too hard to evade. It does get a little scary and Blaine panics for a second because he literally just _shoved Kurt away_, but then he amends it with a few kisses and murmured words and everything is fine. He lets himself get lost in the feel of skin rubbing together and the smell of Kurt everywhere, electrifying and intimate and warm.

When they have thoroughly exhausted themselves he lies with Kurt in his arms, sated and happy and drifting off. And Blaine waits. It has become a habit in the past few weeks. Once his boyfriend's breath has evened off, he sneaks across out of their bed and to his dresser. Relaxed under the cover of darkness and silence, Blaine opens a drawer, pulls out a cotton T-shirt, and lazily drags it over his head. He refuses to let his gaze linger on his arms as he checks that the sleeves cover all that he has to hide.

For a moment he stands in place, simply existing and feeling his limbs tingle with it. He wills away the familiar pull of nausea in his stomach at the thought of his deceit. When he feels like he can move again without heaving, Blaine slinks back into bed. He enjoys the feel of Kurt burrowing into him, of being the comforting one who doesn't need to be protected. It feels good, and it may just be an effect of the alcohol in his system, but he starts to believe it himself. He can be strong. For the first time in weeks, he has no trouble falling asleep.

_Saturday, September 29._

He drifts into wakefulness in complete content. The first thing he sees when he blinks his eyes open is Kurt, practically glowing with a warm smile and handsome as ever. He can already tell this morning is going to be great. "Why didn't you wake me?"

Kurt shrugs. "You looked like you were enjoying your rest."

Blaine beams because yes, he was, wasn't he? He says, truthfully, "Only because you're here with me."

He loves the blush that sweeps over Kurt's face and the relaxed, casual way in which he's touching him. What he loves even more is what Kurt says next; "We should take a shower together. When was the last time we did that?"

_God yes_, he thinks as he replies, a shower together would be heaven, Kurt's skin revealed for him to touch all over and hot water and morning kisses and—_damn it_. Because here he goes again. "Actually, I kind of want to make breakfast. Um. You can go first. I think maybe pancakes."

He rushes into the kitchen and bites his lip _hard_ and breathes heavily through his nose and presses his hands angrily into the countertop and shuts his eyes tightly against himself. _Fuck._

_Sunday, September 30._

Thankfully Kurt hasn't brought up the whole shower incident from yesterday, and things are mostly back to normal. But Blaine knows he has to do something to make up for how strange he's been acting. What he really wants is to just shower with Kurt like he should've, but of course he can't do that. He hasn't yet thought of a situation that would entail cutting his arm over fifteen times. He can't bring himself to consciously plan out a lie; it makes him feel even more like shit than he already does. He shouldn't have to _lie_ at all, not to Kurt.

Of course, his brain is now conditioned to do just that. So when his boyfriend offers him his chance to smoke this morning on a silver platter, Blaine takes it without a second thought. "Well, if you're sure." _Just try to be as slow as possible. I'll be sneaking around while you're gone, so any extra minute counts. Thanks!_

Then Kurt is gone and Blaine is grabbing a pack of cigarettes from beneath a neat pile of shirts in his dresser, along with his lighter. He pointedly ignores the three razor blades that are concealed there as well, remembering what he had promised himself when he'd hid them away: _just smoking, no cutting_. One outlet should be enough, right? He hasn't cut for a week, but that doesn't make him feel much better. Really, smoking is just as bad, if not worse. It's more addictive, and he's drawn back to it each time like a moth to a flame.

Now, of course, is no different. He walks down the stairwell and to the front door with a heavy heart, hating the cigarette held gingerly in his hand. He pulls out his lighter and keys as he approaches the door. Once he's outside Blaine lights up right away, wanting to just get it over with. He'll walk to the side of their building, smoke in the alley, run back upstairs, and wash his mouth out ten times before Kurt gets back. With luck he won't end up voiding the contents of his stomach in the process.

He glares out at passing cars and inhales shakily. Maybe he should just go back to cutting, because he _really_ wants to hurt himself right now. _I make myself sick_, he thinks. He takes a step forward and glances down the sidewalk, hoping for any distraction from what he is doing. Then he freezes in place. _Is that... _Kurt_? Holy fuck. _Blaine doesn't even have time to turn around before his boyfriend looks up and sees him. Then everything goes to hell.

_This isn't happening. Oh god, please, this can't be happening_.

It was only inevitable, really, that he'd fuck everything up. Kurt doesn't deserve this, though, and Blaine can't face it. So he runs. He knows he can't avoid him, but that doesn't stop him from taking off like the coward he is. The look of disbelief and shock etched into Kurt's face swarms in his mind's eye, planting half-expressed fears in his head. Kurt can't know, he just _can't_; he'll realize what a fuckup Blaine is and Blaine can hardly deal with that _himself. _Kurt is so perfect and Blaine will end up losing him because he _isn't_. He climbs the stairs on numb, shaking legs and hardly hears Kurt's calls. He's starting to believe he can get all the way back when a firm hand grabs his shoulder and spins him around. Then he's facing him and it's too much and all he can think is _why the hell did I have to leave and make it worse?_

"Hi, Kurt."

Kurt breathes out slowly through his nose and seems to think things over for a second before he speaks. "Look, I'm not... I'm not _mad_ at you."

"You're not." Blaine stares, disbelieving.

Kurt seems to realize how absurd that sounds and hurries to add, "Well, not _that_ mad. I'm—it's not so much that you're... _smoking_, I just—you ran away! And you didn't trust me enough to let me know in the first place!"

One phrase jumps out at Blaine. "I trust y—"

"Well then why did you have to hide it? You know I would've only wanted to help. You could've told me!"

Kurt's indignant voice echoes loudly through the stairwell. Did he _really_ just say that? "_Told_ you?" Blaine is incredulous.

"Yes, _told_ me."

"I couldn't—" There are no more words to this sentence, so he stops, sighs, runs a hand over his face in agitation. "How could I just _tell_ you something like this? What, was I supposed to just randomly come out and say it?"

"Well, _yes_, unless there's some _other_ way to tell people things, Blaine."

There is a sharp edge to Kurt's voice that Blaine has heard before, and he sighs, frowning. He already feels exhausted and doesn't want to fight. "You know that's not how I meant it." There is an uncomfortable, charged silence, and Blaine can't stand that this is his fault. He drills his gaze into the ground. "Maybe we should go back upstairs." The hushed, reticent tone in his voice surprises him, but he doesn't let it show. Without waiting for an answer he turns to go, head down and jaw clenched.

"No, wait! Blaine, I'm sorry, I didn't mean that. Please, just..." He hears hesitant footsteps approaching and slowly turns around, biting his lip and not daring to glance up. Kurt's voice climbs softly through the air, not loud enough to echo off the walls anymore. "I'm sorry. I know this must be hard, and... I don't want to make things worse."

Blaine can hardly believe Kurt is apologizing; he has every reason to be furious. It sends a pang of self-loathing through him. He looks up and straight into Kurt's eyes. "You could never make anything worse."

Kurt scoffs, shaking his head. "I'm sure I've done it before. But look, I..." He reaches out and tentatively takes Blaine's left hand in his right. "I want to make sure you know you can tell me anything. _Anything_. I won't... judge you for it. Okay?" Blaine opens his mouth but shuts it immediately, staring hard at a spot on Kurt's chest. _Anything_. God, if only Kurt knew what that meant. "What?"

For a long moment he's silent, not sure if he should risk speaking, but Kurt deserves some explanation. He looks up and meets his boyfriend's gaze tenderly. "I don't know, it's just... I was so scared of what you'd think. I didn't want you to know this about me." This statement also encompasses a few other things, but he pretends it doesn't because he's said and done enough bad things for one day. "I _really_ hate smoking, Kurt. And I hated lying to you so much. I kept telling myself I'd stop but it just got worse, and now I'm such a mess, and I know I _really_ screwed up and I'm so, _so_ sorry."

"God, Blaine..." Kurt is shaking his head and Blaine isn't sure why, and it looks like Kurt isn't sure why, either. "I—I'm sorry too. I should've noticed..." Blaine tries to interrupt, because of course Kurt should _not_ have noticed, but Kurt holds up a hand. "Whatever. Don't worry about lying anymore. It's over, isn't it? I mean, I guess I get it that you'd be nervous about me finding out. But honestly, I know you can't have started _smoking_ of all things without a damn good reason, and just, with how much stress you've been dealing with... it's understandable that you'd want to kind of... take the edge off."

Blaine chuckles. "You make it sound like I'm doing drugs or something." Kurt raises an eyebrow as if to say _are you serious?_ "Um... oh, right."

_Thursday, October 4._

The last few days have been wonderful. He and Kurt talked on Sunday about how he'll go about quitting, and now he's only smoking once a day. It feels fantastic to know that he's making progress and that someone is helping him now. There's also the simple fact that Kurt _knows_. Even if it's just a half-truth, it lifts a huge weight from Blaine's shoulders. Kurt can understand and sympathize and help him get better, and things are looking up.

Well, for the most part. It has also been terribly frightening, because with his lower nicotine intake he's incredibly testy and irascible a lot of the time. Sometimes it's all he can do not to snap at Kurt every other sentence, and he hates himself for what it does to his boyfriend. He usually curbs it and he tries to keep cigarettes far from his mind, but as he constantly reminds himself, he's far from perfect.

Right now isn't his prettiest moment. Partial fraction decompositions and too many integrals; he knows that they must make sense and he's sure that they did during the lectures, but now they just _don't_ and he can't hear himself think. He has done this problem over five times and he still can't get the goddamn thing right. He has an important Calculus quiz tomorrow and this assignment is due and he needs to find the right answer, but of course he _can't_. And it's pissing him off.

Calculus II is kind of a killer class. The workload is typical—written homework, online problems and in-class assignments, quizzes, a mid-term and a final—but the material is complicated enough that Blaine needs to spend a good block of time working on it. Math has always been reasonably easily for him, but Calculus isn't the kind of thing that most people can just understand without practice and studying.

The problem is, at a certain point this year his ability to concentrate went down significantly, even for basic things. And Calculus II is far from basic. He's sure he's only passing because he is a reasonably quick learner and is allowed to work with other students on assignments. His current grade is somewhere in the C-range, which is one of the worst grades he has ever had in any class, math or not. Blaine Anderson is an A's and B's kind of guy, hence his initials.

And Calculus is just one of the classes in which he is struggling. He doesn't understand why he suddenly started struggling. What went wrong?

He takes a deep breath, trying to silence his anguished, wandering mind. Maybe the square root isn't supposed to be on the five, or the subscript should be zero, or he's mixing up the variables and _x_ should be _μ_—

"Hey, how's the math going? Need any—"

"_No_, Kurt, I _don't_. Would you just back thefuck_ off_ already? I..." Blaine bites his lip and lets out a long, slow breath. "Shit." After a moment of silence with Kurt's gaze drilling into the back of his head, he manages to mumble out a timid apology.

"It's okay. Maybe you should take a break, Blaine. It might help a little to start fresh, you know?"

"Yeah... that's probably a good idea. I really am sorry. I don't mean to snap at you or anything, I'm just so frustrated, and..."_ I fuck up everything. _"I don't know."

Kurt says not to worry; irritability isn't a crime, especially in his situation. Because who wouldn't be in a bad mood trying to quit nicotine? Blaine hates that his treatment of Kurt is excusable. He's a total douchebag for saying those kinds of things, and it may not even be from the nicotine. He's been in enough of a funk before to just swear at Kurt, hasn't he?

But he says nothing, and so it's forgotten.

_Friday, October 5._

Even after all of his studying last night, Blaine has no clue if he's prepared for the integration quiz as he sits down to take it. He'd hardly been able to get though everything the night before, but he understands the material enough to do most of the problems. This is how he felt before the other two quizzes, on which he got a B and an F, so he doesn't really know what to think. As he starts to read the first equation he works to suppress the creeping tendrils of nausea in his stomach.

Surprisingly, at about 10:00 Blaine leaves the class in high spirits, and instead of trudging he walks leisurely, looking around enough to notice the magnificently blue sky above him through the retreating fog. He had been able to double-check and even triple-check some of his answers, and he feels so confident that he almost wants to brag to someone. "Hey, Blaine! Here already? How was that quiz you were freaking out about?"

Maybe he will.

When Blaine gets back to his and Kurt's apartment at 3:30 he feels like laughing. It's Friday and he totally aced that math quiz and he's caught up in his lit class and he finally finished his microbiology lab and even if he still has more work to do for next week, some reading and notes and an online assignment or two, there's an entire three-day weekend ahead of him. _Three days with Kurt_. He lets himself fall back onto the bed and just relaxes for a moment, breathing deeply. He savors the brush of soft cotton against his arms and of soft stray curls against his forehead, and concentrates on the feeling of his muscles relaxing as they pull around his body. He hasn't paid mind to such simple things in a while.

He just feels so alive, so comfortable in his skin, and his self-esteem seems to have jumped back to normal. He knows he's close to shaking the cigarettes (which makes him grin like an idiot each time he remembers) and the only pieces of evidence that he ever cut at all are the persisting scabs that run across his left arm. But even those will be gone soon, and until they disappear completely he's sure he'll have no trouble hiding them from Kurt.

_Wait_. Suddenly he realizes there's a question he hadn't considered before. He had promised himself he wouldn't cut when he started smoking more, but what about now? Should he be quitting everything? Does he even _want_ to cut anymore? The idea of slicing into his own skin seems so senseless and preposterous that he finds it hard to believe he ever did it at all. Sure, in his teenage years when he was bullied, but now? What the fuck was he _thinking_?

He'll certainly be better without. It was just a coping mechanism, after all, and he should be able to cope some other way like anyone else. He doesn't want to drown anymore, so he shouldn't _have_ to. It's not like cutting is something he needs. _I've done fine so far. _So really, why the hell start again? It's not like he can't stop. He has a choice; he's in control, and he doesn't want to.

After a long, thoughtful moment of staring up at the ceiling, Blaine pushes himself to his feet and makes his way over to his dresser. He deliberately pulls open a drawer and, after finding what he was looking for, slowly leaves the room. As he enters the kitchen he stares for a long time at the thin, cold objects pinched between his left thumb and forefinger, all three of them glinting menacingly in the yellow-white afternoon sun that leaks inside. _Control_.

After standing idly by the kitchen sink for a few seconds, Blaine bends in a smooth, easy movement and tosses two of them into the trashcan. He stands back up and blinks a few times, looking through the window at the blustery, colorful street outside. New York is so beautiful in autumn.

His gaze drops back to his left hand and the last of the objects he'd clutched so carefully. Slowly he lowers the razor into a drawer and places it beside his and Kurt's utility knife, where he'd originally gotten all three blades. Because there's no harm in an extra, is there? In case the other one breaks, so they can use it if they need to open a box or a letter?

Of course not. There can't be any harm in that.

Blaine looks back up and grins brightly at the lovely city and the piercing azure sky on the other side of the glass. _Beautiful_.

_Monday, October 8._

It's Columbus Day. They have school off, and they're on a picnic in the park. It's really amazing outside and the fall leaves are just stunning in all of their variety and so is Kurt, his eyes and skin practically glowing and happiness clear on his features. Everything is how it should be.

The weekend has been well-spent; lazing around and sex and a café date with Kurt's friends on Saturday and some schoolwork (well, on Kurt's part at least). When Blaine finishes the sandwich Kurt made for him—his favorite, ham and Swiss with mustard and lettuce and tomato—he lies back on their blanket and smiles up at his boyfriend whose handsome outline is perfectly defined against the sky and trees above them.

_It's Monday_. _Tomorrow's Tuesday._ Suddenly he's thinking about how little work he has done this weekend and is he really so useless that he can't do _one_ assignment in three days? Kurt doesn't even know that he hasn't done anything because he's too ashamed to tell the truth. Another example, of course, of him _lying_. Why the fuck does he keep doing that? But before his thoughts can wander much further Kurt's voice is pulling him back.

"Hey, what're you thinking about?"

Blaine shrugs. "I don't know. Not much, really." _Liar_. He feels the crease between his eyebrows and the way his lips are pursed and forces his features smooth.

Of course, Kurt doesn't buy it. "Really."

"Shut up," he says, hitting his boyfriend playfully on the arm. "I'm fine, just... spaced out." Another incredulous look. He needs some kind of reason. "Hey, uh... did I have a cigarette this morning, or can I still...?"

Kurt scowls at him but the glint in his eye tells Blaine that he knows he's joking and he doesn't need to explain further. A strange emptiness tugs somewhere deep in his chest but he ignores it, because he won't let that consume him again. Even if the work and the guilt and the self-disgust quietly threaten to swallow him whole. _Fucking dipshit._

_Wednesday, October 10._

"Ugh, god, I can't believe how much work I have left for Econ and Physics," complains Zach, Blaine's former roommate and his closest friend at NYU. The blond flops down beside Blaine on the couch in what used to be their dorm, almost sitting on Andrew, his current roommate, but the guy seems oblivious with how concentrated he is on his laptop. "I had the whole weekend, and I really need to study if I want to keep my A's, but I guess I knew I wouldn't get anything done."

Blaine smiles sympathetically. "I know, me too. I should've been working on Psych and Calc and probably Bio, but I didn't. It kind of pisses me off."

Zach shrugs. "Yeah, but I mean, it's not like we can do anything about it now, right? Just deal with it. I don't want to stress out too much."

"You think you have a problem, dude?" Andrew glances up from what he's typing with an amused look. "This essay is due Friday and I've known about it for a month, and here I am starting it. But, well, whatever. I'll finish it in time."

Blaine laughs along with Zach and shakes his head at Andrew's procrastination, but really he can't help envying them. His friends have no problem with working under stress, and he wishes he was so laid back about school. He used to be, but lately he isn't good with pressure, and it makes him feel like a complete failure to know that two other people with similar classes are procrastinating just as much as—if not more than—he is, and both have better grades than him, at least a few classes. They all mention grades flippantly; GPA doesn't make a difference. Nevertheless, Blaine can't let anyone know that he's struggling. His image has always been very important to him, and he doesn't want it to change. So he'll keep lying, though he hates how it feels.

_Friday, October 12._

Blaine wakes up in a good mood on Friday. He's getting his quiz back, and he has Psych today (the course is technically called Personality, but whatever), which is pretty much his favorite class right now. Kurt wishes him lots of luck before they part ways, and a good portion of said luck is transferred through their lips, which is always good. He walks into Mr. Hanhart's classroom with his head held high, already fighting back a smile.

As the quizzes are handed back Blaine taps his foot anxiously, listening to other students chatter about what they may or may not have done wrong and trying not to think too much. He knows he did well on this and there's no sense in worrying. He imagines that at worst he got a B, that's what he prepares himself to see.

When his paper reaches him he deflates. He stares hard at it but the letter in red is still the same and the ink all over the page is not moving.

He didn't get a B. He didn't even get a C. He got a _D_.

It's not even the fact that he got a D; he's gotten them before. He'd just been so sure that he did well, and he had checked it so carefully. What makes it worse is that as he looks over the corrections he understands why he was marked off, and the right answers seem painfully clear.

How is he so _stupid?_

Once the class is over (after a lecture and lots of careful notes) Blaine heads to a nearby café, where he spends the next two hours trying to study, watching people walk by, and eating lunch. In Personality they're on the fourth chapter, which is about the "interaction between person and situation." This, of course, doesn't help anything. "Interactional psychology recognizes that situations vary in cues, rewards, and opportunities and that people vary in cognitions, abilities, and motivation." _The hell they do_.

He can't help but brood on his grades right now, wondering how bad his GPA would be was he to calculate it. When his classes are over and he's ready to leave he dodges a couple of requests from friends that he go out with them and leaves for home as soon as he can. He just wants to be alone.

He practically runs up the stairs to their apartment when he gets to the building, relishing in the pain of exertion in his thighs and calves. Once inside he feels like he's suffocating and throws off his sweater, hardly paying attention to where it lands. He tries to sit down but finds he can't stay still, and ends up pacing back and forth next to the kitchen table. He's breathing too fast and digging his nails into his palms but he doesn't quite know how to calm down. He hates so much that this is who he _is_ now, freaking out about school when he shouldn't, making a big deal out of what is surely nothing, and ruining everything with himself and his fucking _problems_. Why can't he be normal? That's all he's ever wanted to be. But of course that's not possible, and he's reminded of it every day when he wakes up and every time he has to lie to Kurt, himself, his friends, or his family by saying everything's okay.

He'd thought everything was okay. Everything is _not fucking okay_.

And he doesn't know what to do to make it better. His upper lip curls a little in disgust when he imagines Kurt seeing him like this, falling apart like the feeble excuse for a man that he is. He just digs himself deeper and deeper whenever he tries to escape, bringing out more of the darkness in his chest. He hates himself for this, for everything.

There is a cigarette within reach that he could smoke and he hasn't yet today, but something tells him that won't help. It'd only make him feel worse, bringing more toxicity into his body. _You fucking _moron_. Kurt is too good for someone like you, inadequate and useless and despicable. _He just wants to feel pain; he deserves to be hurt, to suffer, to break. _You weigh him down every day; you're a failure who doesn't deserve his love._

The razorblade is in the same drawer where he left it a week ago, clean and shining silver and beautifully sharp. It feels heavy in his right hand, and its edge is delightfully cold against his skin.

He breathes hard and his hand twitches and revulsion at his own being seems to pulse with his heartbeat in his fingertips. He feels the blood pumping as he presses hard and watches as the razor cuts into his bicep. He pulls it back and forth, relishing the way it tugs at his skin painfully. This is the ache that he has earned. _Not good enough._

He only slices his arm open a few times, but the pain is enough to placate the desperation. When it's over the only thing he feels is relief; it's like he let out the anger and hate through the gaps in his skin. Slowly, carefully, he wets a paper towel and swipes the blood away, and then finds his sweater on the back of a chair at the kitchen table and pulls it on again. After a moment he realizes that the razor is still sitting in plain sight on the counter, so he walks over to put it away.

He rinses it off without urgency and purposefully places it back where it came from. For a long instant he simply stares down at the small weapon in the open drawer. _Well, so much for that._ His little charade of stopping completely had lasted all of a week. But he needs to cope, doesn't he?

He's so preoccupied with his own thoughts that he doesn't hear the key in the lock or the door opening. "What'cha doin'?"

Kurt's voice jolts Blaine back into reality, and he jumps slightly and closes the drawer, trying not to look too conspicuous as he turns around to face his boyfriend. "I was just, uh, thinking about getting something to eat." _Liar._ Does it show on his face?

Apparently not, because Kurt doesn't mention anything. They talk for a few minutes, exchanging their usual banter that always brightens Blaine's day, before Kurt decides to go clean up and leave Blaine to his own devices in the kitchen. Once the taller man is out of sight Blaine collapses into a chair at the kitchen table and buries his face in his hands, wishing he could just stay there forever in a shielded and benign world all his own. It makes him feel a little better to hide, but it also reminds him just how much more _hiding_ he'll need to do in the near future.

_Fuck. Yeah, so much for that._


	4. I can't make it go away

_Saturday, October 13._

That night they go to bed early, hoping to catch up on sleep. But Blaine doesn't. Hours pass and he's still thinking and his self-worth seems to shrink with every minute that goes by.

The cuts from earlier sting slightly when he shifts to look at the clock, making guilt claw at his stomach. It's barely Saturday; the clock by their bed reads 1:27 a.m. His movements are sluggish as he listens to the sounds of the city outside and the air moving around him. His thoughts have become jumbled and repetitive and meaningless, words like _empty _and_ sleep _and_ heavy_. He wants to sleep more than anything, but he knows he doesn't deserve to close his eyes and escape this hell.

Rather ironically, Kurt is fast asleep against him, a total juxtaposition of Blaine. He looks blissfully unaware and undeniably sexy with a thin green T-shirt riding up over his slim hips. But as Blaine watches him the need to leave builds. He shifts carefully, afraid to wake Kurt because he _always_ knows when he's faking sleep, and he'll ask questions Blaine doesn't want to answer. His caution feels like a crime. How can he not be comfortable with Kurt, in the bed they share? _Fuck. _It's wrong and terrible and impossibly terrifying and he needs to get _away_.

He carefully lifts Kurt's arm off of himself and slides out of bed. In a few seconds the bathroom door is closed behind him, his palms flat against the countertop. Then he's leaning forward over the vanity, his eyes closed tight, just existing for a moment and listening to the subtle silence of the room with bated breath. No one is here to judge or ask questions. He's safe.

When his mind is silenced sufficiently Blaine opens his eyes to survey himself in the mirror, and everything comes roaring back like a wave crashing to shore. The despair, the anxiety in the pit of his stomach, the sting of skin beneath cotton, the headache building behind his eyes. And he hasn't the energy to overcome it. He knows from experience that drowning in darkness is far easier than fighting it.

He remembers when he first felt this way, a fourteen-year-old who was just starting out at Westerville High. He remembers how much he hated himself sometimes, how he wished he could just give up and leave it all behind. But somehow it's worse now; he has what he's always wanted. Friends, family, boyfriend, college where he's studying what he loves. What right does he have to feel so much like _shit?_

He glares at the mirror unrelentingly, at his dark eyes, triangular eyebrows, idiotically curly hair, even tan skin. The beginnings of prickly stubble along his jaw line, and below that his Adam's apple bobbing. Then the T-shirt pulling across his chest, lifted up just slightly to reveal two deep indentations on his hips and a light trail of hair, both disappearing into his loose sweatpants. And then his hands, calloused and strong from playing guitar, and his arms with muscles tensed and a few veins visible. Most of these are things about himself that he has admired at one point or another.

Looking closer, though, every part of him is flawed. His eyes look hollow, and his skin isn't really smooth at all—it's littered with bumps and discoloration and imperfections. His cheeks are too round, his jaw too angular, his hair too greasy and tangled. The stubble on his face makes him look haggard, and on top of that he's far too short. People joke, but he knows it's true. The only thing that comforts him is his arms. A few thin fading lines on his wrist and the deeper cuts he knows are hidden beneath the sleeves are all that he can find to really admire about himself right now. How fucking _pathetic_ is that? He doesn't bother stopping his upper lip from curling slightly in disgust or his jaw from clenching in irritation. It's not really that he thinks he's ugly or overweight or physically unfit. It's just the fact that the person staring back is _him_. The guy who's flawed and weak and undeserving and selfish and stupid and useless. _Blaine_. He hates the man in the mirror more the longer he stares.

_The man in the mirror. _Slowly a chuckle builds up in Blaine's throat, and then he's laughing hard, mostly sharp intakes of air as he tries to stay silent. It sounds more desperate than amused, but the words coming back to him now only serve to make him laugh harder:

_I'm starting with the man in the mirror_  
><em>I'm asking him to change his ways<em>

At a certain point he isn't quite laughing anymore, his mouth twisting into a firm line and water building up in his eyes until he angrily swipes it away with the palm of his hand, not knowing how it got there. He needs to fucking _man up_ for once in his life. Where did all his reputed _courage_go?

He wishes things could be simple like they were in high school, when singing a song could solve all his problems.

But his problems might run a little deeper than that.

_Sunday, October 14._

"So, I was thinking I'd quit today."

Kurt looks up from the paper and drops his spoon back into the bowl of cereal he'd been eating. "Quit? Quit what?"

Blaine can't help but grin a little. "Smoking."

"Oh my god, Blaine! That's awesome!" Kurt is practically glowing, his eyes sparkling with happiness and pride, and it spreads warmth to Blaine's fingertips. "Congratulations."

Blaine looks down at the table, suddenly feeling bashful. "Thanks. I just thought I'd tell you, I donno."

"Well, of course! It's important. Hey, we should go out to dinner and celebrate tonight!" When Blaine raises an eyebrow he falters slightly. "Well, or just a date. You know. That'd be good too."

Blaine chuckles. "I was kidding, Kurt, it's fine. If you want to _celebrate_," and he uses air quotes for this word, "then sure. It'll be fun."

"Okay." Kurt looks back down at the paper. "And we can always have our own private celebration at home," he adds, smirking slyly.

Blaine raises an eyebrow. "Oh, well _maybe_. Not so sure, though, I'm a little under the weather lately." He's only teasing. It's not until later that he realizes what he said is true.

When they get home that night Kurt takes a moment to relax, leaning back against their couch and biting his lip and running a hand through his hair, the lines of muscle in his chest showing slightly through his shirt as he stretches languidly. Blaine is mesmerized. When Kurt notices his boyfriend watching him his eyes sparkle with a grin and he looks down in that adorably bashful way. But Blaine makes sure to turn off all the lights before he gets any closer. And though he wants to give Kurt all of himself like he used to, be revealed and vulnerable in the light of day, kiss every inch of his skin and get the same in return, he reels himself in. He hasn't let his boyfriend see all of himself in a while, neither physically nor mentally.

He's just so scared of what Kurt will find.

_Tuesday, October 16._

By Tuesday he has, unsurprisingly, left a significant amount of reading and worksheets unfinished. Of course, with this in mind he spends the afternoon dawdling online and around the apartment. If he would just sit down and study for a few hours he could probably finish what he needs to do, but he doesn't. And that is what kills him. There really is so much time for him to be studying, helping himself, but he doesn't bother. And no one is going to help him; he should be able to study by now, shouldn't he? He's a fucking _junior _in college.

More than once he sits up in his desk chair and struggles to breathe. It feels like work, his throat constricted by stress and sadness that he can't let out (_can't cry, never cry, crying isn't courage_). He feels disgusting, the filth of the day all over his body, but he doesn't shower. He tells Kurt he's not hungry when he proposes dinner, says he's tired when he proposes sex, apologizes that he has to work when he proposes sleep. He stays up until two trying to finish what he'd neglected before.

What makes it worse is that his day was perfectly fine. He'd gone to classes, talked and joked with friends, procrastinated like everyone else. His only problem is idleness and night, when tortuous thoughts haunt him and he wonders at what point everything other than Kurt became just another motion to go through, another echo of a life he used to love, a life that used to matter. He has no excuse for this.

He wonders when Kurt will stop mattering, too. It's a frightening thought, but what is more frightening is that it's entirely possible. Why should he even care at all?

_Wednesday, October 17._

The next day starts off marginally better. He showers in the morning, washing off the grime of the previous night, and when he's at school there are enough distractions that he doesn't have time to think about how much of a fuck-up he is. Nevertheless, a few stray thoughts permeate his mind. He's still guilty about cutting on Friday, and he has tried not to since then. But at some point between Calculus and Biology he starts to wonder: why? What reason does he have to be guilty? It's not like he's hurting anyone else. It's his body, after all, and if it helps to cut then he'll fucking tear himself _apart_.

So when he gets home to a generously empty flat he grabs the razor with shaking hands and _cuts_. He pushes harder and it's stingier than normal, at the most easy-to-reach place: the top of his forearm. It's not like anyone will notice—it's not his wrist, right? All questioning thoughts come to an abrupt halt as the tingling agony shoots through his nerves. Again and again the waves return, and it's just one cut. It's deeper than he thinks he has gone yet. He stares in captivation at the paper white gap beneath the surface of his skin. As it fills with blood, Blaine realizes it isn't enough. He tears his shirt off and rushes to the bathroom, where he slices four deep lines into his upper arm before watching the crimson seep out from inside.

He can feel it. He can control it.

He feels more alive than he has in days.

_Thursday, October 18._

Thursday is chilly and he pulls on a warm sweater over a polo, knowing that his long sleeves won't look out of place among jackets and scarves. He has some kind of conversation with Kurt at breakfast, but his responses are automatic and complete farces. When Kurt asks how he's feeling (he can tell, he can _always_ tell) he says sorry, he's fine, just tired is all. _Just tired._If he was honest, his perfect world and its walls would surely crumble down like ash.

A part of him wants to walk around with his arms showing at NYU, see if anyone asks, but he doesn't. He talks to Zach and Andrew and a girl in his Psych class named Annabel and he knows that their conversations are about a huge range of things, but all that he remembers from each encounter is the clip when they're complaining, saying this or that is horrible and god that class sucks and ugh it's so depressing in there. It's endlessly frustrating; they don't know the _half_ of it.

By the end of the day he's so frustrated with the world and with himself for caring so much and at the same time so little that he doesn't think he can go home and keep up his act. He idles around campus for a while, trying to study and then having a coffee, but he still feels like hitting something.

_Hitting something_. Suddenly he remembers how he ended up feeling better at Dalton, what he used to do when he was upset as a teenager. _Boxing_.

After asking around a little he ends up finding the weight room. It's empty, thankfully, and he's still wearing jeans but he doesn't really care, just pulls off his sweater and ignores the gloves sitting on the dumbbell rack. He'll do it with his bare hands, because he needs pain. A fucking arsenal of pain.

And then he's throwing his anger into his hands and pummeling the heavy bag, completely absorbed in the action. He deserves the way his knuckles and fingers are getting bruised and scratched by the rough, unforgiving material. He feels like he's on fire, his jaw clenched and the muscles in his arms burning in exertion as he punches again and again, but he doesn't care. This feels good, this release is what he needs, almost better than cutting, hitting as hard as he wants, enough to send each impact reverberating through his form, and _no one is watching.__  
><em>  
>"Whoa, dude. Are you okay?" <em>Or not<em>. He's shocked into stillness, and when he looks up a part of him wonders just how ridiculously surprised he looks. The guy who has interrupted his self-torture is tall with shaggy blond hair, and thank god he doesn't know him because if he did he'd realize immediately that he isn't okay at all.

"Yeah. Fine, I'm fine."

"You, just, uh... you looked upset. And you're gonna murder your hands doing that—you must realize."

Blaine shrugs and looks down at his burning knuckles. "I think they're okay."

The guy raises a pale eyebrow. "Bad day?"

"A little." He purses his lips and stretches, raising his arms behind his head and then letting them fall to his sides. "But I'm really fi—"

"Hold on. Sorry, I think you're bleeding."

"Oh?" He wants to look and pretend he's interested but he feels too tired to make the effort.

"Your knuckles are thrashed, man."

Vaguely a part of him acknowledges this. "Yeah..." Like he gives a shit. The idea makes him want to laugh.

"Shit, what happened to your _arm?_That must be one hell of a story."

Blaine looks down and sees the majority of his cuts revealed, some of them raw and bright red. All of a sudden he goes into panic mode, anxiety flooding his veins with energy. He backs up a few steps. "Yeah, I, uh..." _Something happened to my arm. Fuck, what happened to my arm? _"A cooking... accident. You know, burned myself. And a fence, I fell off a fence, and my cat is a little..." It's strangely exhausting to lie now, the exertion of boxing for so long catching up with him, and he doesn't even want to bother. Why should he? He doesn't know this guy. "Um, actually, I should get going."

He's is eyeing him skeptically now, looking at his cuts with concern and seeming to catch on that something's wrong. "Dude, really, are you sure you're alright?" Blaine nods shakily, then turns and starts to leave, his mouth too paralyzed to give the guy any more reassurance. He hears only part of what he says next; "I may not know you, but if you need to...know the counselors here are...it's no big deal...hope you feel better!" He's out the door before the blond stranger can give him any more well-meant but entirely useless advice. Like he'd ever talk to a counselor.

Later he'll think about what he said and laugh. A cooking accident and a fence and a cat? What the _fuck?_ Right now, though, he wants to fucking sob his eyes dry. Someone noticed, and it was terrifying. Shame dries up his mouth and makes him nauseous. He doesn't ever want to face the world again. It's just a risk that someone else will know, and that can't happen. It just _can't_.

_Saturday, October 20._

Two more days pass and Blaine is still in limbo, feeling things distantly but mostly faking his way through it all. It feels like he's controlling his body from somewhere else. He thinks that Kurt might have noticed that he isn't himself, but he hasn't said anything yet. Their routine hasn't changed much, the only thing being that they have sex less often, but the clear excuse for that is how busy they are, even if it's far from the truth.

So now it's Saturday night and he feels like he's avoiding Kurt even though they're lying against one another on the couch. Because if this was another night, maybe sometime last month, they'd probably be making out right now, skin close and tingling, desire sinuous between them and a smile pulling at Blaine's lips. But he's unable to concentrate on the movie and too tired to sleep, and even thinking about making out with Kurt is exhausting. He can't deal with tenderness or desire right now. Sure, they'd make him feel something other than hopelessness, but they also spell _discovery_.

_Blaine._

He actually slept until noon today because of how little he's been sleeping lately. Not that he deserves a rest, because it's his own damn fault anyway, keeping himself up with morbid thoughts. But he slept until noon. And Kurt had been worried but Blaine had passed it off as nothing, because _come on, you slept till ten thirty, how is that so different?_

_Blaine?_

He just wants to be loved without having to worry. But that probably won't ever happen again, will it? Being taken care of and revered without revealing all the shit that's wrong with him? Maybe _in spite of_ it? Right. The thought is absurd. Kurt would be horrified, would want to get as far away from him as possible. He would hate him. _Hate_ him. And though he knows deep down that it isn't true, that Kurt would care, suddenly that's all he can think, _hate, hate, hate_—and it's making him feel sick and _fuck_ he wouldn't be able to stand that, Kurt _hating_—

"Blaine!"Suddenly he realizes Kurt has been saying his name and he has been staring vacantly at some spot on the wall a little ways to the left of the television.

"Huh? What?" He shakes himself out of his stupor and turns to look at his boyfriend, whose delicate eyebrows are furrowed. Blaine can't seem to fake a smile, so he settles for watching Kurt expectantly.

"Are you... okay?" Kurt bites his lip, eyes roving over Blaine's features in worry, and it makes him crazily self-conscious.

For a moment he can't bring himself to speak, the question so blunt and unavoidable. "Yeah," he says finally, and scoffs weakly. "Of course. I'm fine." He blinks a few times and tells himself the moisture in his eyes is from the movie. _Oh fucking hell, what is wrong with me?_

"Are you sure?" Apparently Kurt's wondering the same thing. "I mean, we don't have to watch this. We could talk, if you want. Or sleep. It's getting late."

Blaine knows an opportunity when he sees one. "Actually, yeah, I think I might just go to bed." He makes an indecisive face and looks at Kurt with what he hopes is a cute pleading expression. "I know I'm acting weird, but I'm just so _tired_. Ugh, I'm sorry."

Kurt laughs it off. "Don't apologize, it's fine. I'm tired too, you have no idea." _Oh, I think I do. _Suddenly Blaine is sickeningly angry. Kurt fell for it; he's so fucking _blind_. For a moment he almost hates him for not noticing that he's falling apart on the inside, but the feeling passes almost as quickly as it came. He pretends to be fast asleep when Kurt kisses him goodnight.

As soon as he's sure Kurt isn't awake anymore, he pulls away. He feels suffocated by the warm body beside him, so close, too close when all he wants is to hide. He turns away from Kurt and curls in on himself on his side, pulling his knees up and hiding his face beneath his arms and squeezing his eyes shut until it hurts. It's confined, quiet, protected, _alone_. And it's in this position that Blaine finally descends into the merciful darkness of sleep.

He doesn't dream.

_Monday, October 22._

It's getting harder to deal with things. Lately he and Kurt have been tense in a kind of disconnected way, like they're okay but not really, something edging its way out that he can't pinpoint, and whatever it is they're avoiding it like the plague. He keeps snapping at Kurt for no reason and doing senseless things, so half the time he chooses not to say anything at all. It's tiresome.

Today is slightly better. It's Monday, so he has things to concentrate on to distract him from what really matters. The exasperation is still quietly simmering, though, occasionally whipping out and making him want to hit something, but he's home before he really notices it and he can't take it out on a punching bag. When he walks in the door, thankfully, Kurt isn't there to be on the receiving end of his anger; he's singing something in French in their bedroom. Of course, just as this thought crosses Blaine's mind, the singing is cut off.

"Blaine, could you empty the dishwasher? We need to and you haven't in a while, and I'm kind of in the middle of this translation for French Diction."

He clenches his teeth and bites out a 'sure,' trying not to sound upset, because he knows that if Kurt gets near him right now he'll say something stupid and probably freak him out. Of _course_ he hasn't done any cleaning for a while; he's been too caught up feeling sorry for himself and being a lazy ass.

He waits for the singing to start again before he opens the dishwasher a little too forcefully and starts putting dishes away. Clattering sounds echo around him as plates knock into one another. He breathes deeply, bites his lip, and tries to stifle the anger, but the lack of excuse for it only makes it worse. _Fucking idiot.__  
><em>  
>When he starts putting the cups away he hardly notices that he is slamming them down in the cabinet. The third glass that he picks up turns out to be the unlucky one of the group; he squeezes it hard enough to send a crack through it and cave in part of one side.<p>

"_Shit_." Blaine sets the glass down on the counter and stares at it, at the smooth crescent of a hole gaping on the left side. A quick once-over of the immediate area reassures him that everything is clear, so he slowly lifts out the shard and examines it.

The edge is so _sharp_. Spite and self-contempt make him grit his teeth and tighten his grip, watching the glass press reassuringly into his palm. _Not a good idea. Not a—you goddamn moron_. It bites into his skin but the pain is comforting, and maybe he should stop but he doesn't want to and he deserves this and god it's so sharp and what is wrong with him and—

"Oh my _god_, Blaine! Are you alright?" His hold abruptly loosens and he slowly lowers the shard to the countertop. After a glance at his hand he hides it at his side, because that blood shouldn't be there. _Oh, fuck_—

Fleetingly he glances up, sees Kurt standing at the threshold between kitchen and living room, perfect hair slightly tousled and glowing blue-green eyes set in worry. The question repeats in Blaine's head; _are you alright? are you alright? are you alright? _He looks away. "I'm fine."

"Is that—are you _bleeding_? Here, let me see." Then Kurt's there, holding Blaine's hand flat, and there's blood smeared across his palm. Kurt sucks in a breath through his teeth. "Ouch. That has got to sting. I'm gonna go get a Band-Aid. Stay right here, okay?"

He meets Kurt's gaze—it's concerned and searching as ever, like nothing's amiss—and shrugs, smiling and rolling his eyes. "Alright. But it's not that bad! It was just a stupid accident." _Accident.__ Accident. Accident. _But no matter how many times he repeats it to himself, he knows the truth. Shame bubbles in his gut like vomit as Kurt leaves the room. He wishes he could throw it up.

_Wednesday, October 24._

His laptop screen is glaring at him, over-bright, and the page in his psych book that he's trying to take notes on is the same, too white to look at for more than a few seconds. He's getting a headache. He thinks back: _three thirty's when I got home, so four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, one thirty. One thirty in the morning Wednesday. That's ten hours wasted. Wasted. Fucking wast—_

"Blaine, you're still up? _Shit_, it's late. You should really—"

"I'm fine." He stares hard at his computer screen, refusing to relent and look up at Kurt, who he sees out of the corner of his eye a few feet away.

"Aren't you tired?"

"Yeah, but I have to finish this for tomorrow." He blinks hard; the light of the screen burns and his body wants to sleep.

"But you—seriously, Blaine. Can't you do this tomorrow too? I mean, in class, or at breaks? You're killing yourself here. You can't be getting much done when you're—"

"I need to finish it _now_, Kurt." He doesn't. "Okay?" He knows it isn't.

"It's two in the morning."

"I _know_, okay? I don't care!" Blaine hates himself even more than before when the words leave his mouth. He knows that it's just the sleep deprivation talking, that this isn't a real fight, that Kurt will forgive him in the morning even if he doesn't deserve an iota of forgiveness. He hears the murmur of a 'goodnight' and the decisive click of their bedroom door shutting, but he doesn't respond or look up. Everything is brighter now, swimming in his eyes, glistening, _too bright_. He just wants to turn the lights off and never see anything again. How could he have ever been afraid of the dark?

He grabs a tissue to wipe the tears off his keyboard, furious at himself for being so weak.

_Friday, October 26._

When Friday finally arrives Blaine hopes some of the gloom will pass with the comfort of distraction and knowing it's almost the weekend, but everything is painfully unchanged. As he walks from class to class and waves at people in the courtyards, he feels the weight of responsibility heavy and tangible on his shoulders. He heaves a huge sigh of relief when he gets out of his last class. Though the amount of information he needs to learn by next week is kind of daunting, the school day is over and he's more grateful than ever that New York is essentially a crowd of complete strangers. No one cares; no one is paying attention. He leaves campus without looking back.

When he gets home he takes a moment to compose himself before unlocking the door. Strangely enough, Kurt isn't back yet, though he usually gets here early on Thursdays. Regardless of the reason, Blaine takes advantage of the empty apartment, sprawling out on their bed and closing his eyes to the world. He isn't sure how long he's been lying there listening to himself breathe when loud, nondescript music suddenly startles him out of his pseudo-nap. At first he thinks it's Kurt playing something, but after a moment he realizes it's something else entirely: his phone.

He fumbles for a moment before pressing **Accept Call**. "Hello?"

"Hey little bro, it's Cooper! Just calling to see what's up."

_Fuck, why didn't I check caller ID? _"Hi! I, um, just got home from school. I've been fine. How about you?"

"Pretty good, I guess. It's been a little hectic with work and the new movie and everything, but I'm doing pretty well."

Blaine prods his mind and realizes he'd talked to his brother just two weeks before, but it feels like years away now. Everything is murky. "Hm. Yeah, that's good." He doesn't feel like making the effort to talk. There's a long, slightly awkward pause.

"Blaine?" _Oh god, this is so damn awkward_. "Um, are you okay?" The tone in Cooper's voice is clearly joking, but Blaine knows genuine worry is creeping in on the edges. "You're usually talking my ear off by now."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Of course. I'm just tired is all. You know." It's almost as hard to lie to Cooper as it is to lie to Kurt; it just feels _wrong_. The only difference here is that Cooper knows about the dark places his mind has been, so when Blaine evades he reads more into it.

There's another pause, and Blaine can practically hear his brother thinking through the phone. "I... yeah. I just..." He can tell that Cooper's running a hand over his face and the back of his neck, the same nervous habit that Blaine has. "How've you been? I mean, really? Is Calc still a bitch? Kurt doing well?" _That's it_. Blaine successfully avoids talking about himself for the next ten minutes by telling Cooper about Kurt, the classes he's taking, how great he's been doing, that funny thing he said last week. There are hardly any more awkward moments, and he's pretty sure he has him fooled. That is, until he realizes he doesn't.

"Look, Blaine, I have no problem with you talking about your boyfriend, but what about you?

"Like I said, Cooper, I'm _fine_. I mean, nothing's changed. I'm good."

"Blaine..."

"I said I'm _fine_, okay?" This comes out sharper than he'd intended, so he tones it down a bit, gritting his teeth and trying to calm down. "I'm fine. Would you just... please, just stop acting like something's wrong." _Even though it is._

Cooper sighs audibly. "Okay, whatever you want. Oh, um, Dad wanted me to ask you how your grades are... what should I tell him?"

Blaine scoffs, shaking his head. Always his grades, expectations of how great he's got to be. "Like he cares. He hasn't talked to me in months."

"He _cares_, Blaine. That's why he asked me. He just feels weird calling you, is all."

"Yeah, and the only thing he _cares_ about is my fucking _grades_." _Which are fucking terrible, if you wanted to know._

"You know that's not true, Blaine, you just—"

"Look, forget I said anything."

"Blaine, please, I can tell there's something—"

"Well you're wrong, alright?" His voice betrays him, cracking on the last word. He can feel a plead for help trying to crawl its way out of his throat but he holds it back, swallowing thickly. "I'm okay. Everything's _okay_."

"No it isn't! I know we don't talk much, but I'm not a total _idiot_." Blaine pulls the phone away from his ear, staring at the screen for a long moment. His brother's voice is calling from far away, somewhere safe and comforting and real; "Please, Blaine, you can talk to—"

**End Call**.

He realizes distantly that this is the first time he has ever hung up on anyone on purpose. He doesn't think of himself as a mean person, but he just _couldn't_.

When his phone starts ringing again a moment later he digs his nails hard into the palm of his left hand and clicks **Ignore**. A part of him registers that his hands are shaking, but he doesn't even try to stop them. He bites his lip and takes an uneven breath, trying to compose himself.

But again his phone startles him out of it. He huffs quietly and clenches his fists until there are surely red marks on his palms, then presses harder, focusing on the pain. "Shit..." He's getting his razor after this. As he grabs his phone off the bed he mutters more swear words under his breath. It's not a call this time; it's a text.

_hey Blaine, it's Annabel. about psych-do you know if we're going over mood and emotion next week? I lost the syllabus and Sam has my laptop. maybe we can study together this weekend_

Blaine glares at the screen for a moment and breathes hard. Another person asking something of him. Something in him breaks; he just can't deal with this anymore. "_Fuck_." He throws his phone across the room as hard as he can. It hits the wall with a loud, satisfying _clack_, then drops to the floor with a hefty _thump_, and he doesn't flinch in the slightest. Or does he? He hears a gasp, but that can't have been him, and—suddenly he realizes he won't be grabbing his razor anytime soon. Kurt is watching from the doorway, face frozen in an expression of shock and worry.

Traitorous words tumble out of his mouth of their own volition. "How long have you been standing there?"

Kurt's mouth, which had been slightly open, closes. "Um..." He clears his throat. "A while."

"A while," he repeats, trying to think back to what he said to Cooper, but everything is fuzzy and he really just wants this to go away.

"You were talking to Cooper when I got here, I thought you heard me. You seemed fine at first, but—" Kurt cuts himself off, looking past Blaine and biting his lip, his eyes a little watery. Suddenly a startling thought hits Blaine, leaving him winded and queasy. Kurt isn't stupid; he can probably see how screwed up he is now. And why should Kurt be with him if Blaine isn't the great guy he professes to be? Another expectation he'll never live up to. _Not fucking good enough._ He stares down at this hands in his lap as they tremble, afraid to look up.

"Blaine..."

"Sorry if I startled you, with the phone. I didn't mean to throw it."

"No, don't—"

"I mean, I shouldn't have done that. It was senseless and stupid and I just—I'm sorry." Before he has much time to react Kurt is holding his hands securely, warm and sure and not shaking in the slightest. He sits down beside him on the bed, leaving some space between them but not enough that he can't cross it in a second.

"It's _okay_, Blaine. You're upset, I get it." He nods minutely and swallows, squeezing Kurt's hands to try to ground himself, and Kurt squeezes back because he knows he needs the support. "Blaine..." When he doesn't look up he hears Kurt sigh. "C'mere." And then he's in his favorite place, savoring the feel of Kurt so close, the smell of his shampoo against his neck, holding onto him like he might slip away any second. What Kurt says next is spoken so softly that Blaine almost doesn't catch it, but the words tickle his ear and he's sure that he isn't imagining things. "You know you can tell me anything, right?"

Blaine feels the opportunity opening up before him. He could give in, say _it's stupid _or_ it doesn't matter_, and Kurt would know and ask and find out and maybe help him. But he doesn't say either of those things_._ He says, "Yeah, I know." Then holds his boyfriend tighter and he can't think, doesn't dare to, is terrified of thinking, because Kurt said _you know you can tell me anything_, and the only thing that comes to mind is _I don't want to live._

He doesn't know how it got so bad.

**A/N: The title of this chapter is from "Counting Stars" by Sugarcult. I'm really sorry about the wait, everyone. Lately my life has been... well, a bit like Blaine's, honestly. Only a) I'm not a guy, b) I don't have a boyfriend, and c) I'm not in college yet. :P The next chapter is kind of more exciting, so hopefully I'll have it out faster than this one, but no promises. I really have no idea if you guys like where I'm going with this story, so any reviews are really appreciated. You (yes, I am talking to YOU) are where I get my motivation!**


	5. looking for an easy way out

**A/N: Thanks for the lovely reviews, everyone! I have no excuse for the wait. But this chapter is out now, so hopefully you can forgive me. :P Be warned, there's ****smut/porn in this chapter. I don't usually write sex scenes, but it seemed necessary for the plot and characters. Let me know if it's weird or terrible or cheesy or anything, really. Anyway, the title is from "Easy Way Out" by Gotye. Now, to get on with it...**

_Saturday, October 27._

Blaine wakes up Saturday with a faint feeling of exhilaration at the fact that no one knows anything. Well, except maybe Cooper, but that doesn't make much difference. They're closer than they used to be, but they still have their own lives to live. As for Kurt, he dodged a bullet, saying he was only stressed about schoolwork and pissed at his family, nothing new. And Kurt seemed to believe it. Blaine can't be certain, of course, but watching his boyfriend sleep peacefully next to him, a hand over Blaine's heart like it has never known another home, he hopes to hell it's true. He'd almost forgotten how comforting it is to have a façade to hide behind. Kurt is undeniably the best part of his life, and tainting that would make him feel awful.

He lies in complete relaxation for a few minutes, listening absently to the quiet patter of rain outside and the morning traffic. He lets his fingertips meander across Kurt's jaw and down over his shoulder, loving the infinitesimal sighs he gets in return and how Kurt shifts into his touch. When his boyfriend's eyelashes start to flutter a smile tugs at Blaine's lips and he leans over to kiss him. It's a delicate, languid kiss, mostly just reveling in the intimacy of waking up together. As Kurt starts to kiss back Blaine runs his tongue lightly over his bottom lip and pulls away, grinning.

"Hey... come back here," Kurt mumbles, almost incoherently.

"Thought you didn't like morning kisses."

Blaine feels a familiar pull of affection in his stomach as Kurt adorably scrunches up his nose. "_Blaine!_ I need to brush my teeth, oh my _god!_ Why do you keep doing this to me?" Kurt crawls out of bed and runs a hand through his hair as he stumbles from the room, messing it up further.

"Because, like I keep telling you, you taste _fine_," Blaine calls, following him into their bathroom.

"And that's still one of the weirdest things anyone has _ever_ said to me." They exchange a look in the mirror, all smirks and raised eyebrows. Thankfully Kurt doesn't notice his smile fall when he steps up to grab his toothbrush and his gaze latches onto his reflection; a rather thick pink-red line is visible at the top of his left forearm, almost in the pit of his elbow.

After an agonizing breakfast of zeroing in on Kurt's mouth and waiting for his shirt to ride up with only waffles and the rain outside to distract him, Blaine finds himself between his boyfriend and the kitchen counter, pressing up against him as much as possible and exploring his mouth just to make sure he remembers every inch of it. They take their time and it's intoxicating, tingling, dizzying—until an alarm goes off in Blaine's head.

"Mm—wait, _shit!_ Kurt—"

"What?" Kurt's still a little off-balance from what they were just doing.

"I'm sorry, I can't, I have to..." Blaine mumbles it grudgingly against his boyfriend's lips, not a half bad lie because he really, _really_ doesn't want to stop. He chances a glance past Kurt at the clock on the far wall. _11:05._ "I told Annabel I'd meet her at eleven. Ugh..." He runs a hand through his hair haphazardly and sidesteps to avoid the addicting proximity. "_Damn_ it. I'm sorry."

"You're already late... you sure she can't wait a little longer?" Kurt gives him a pleading, have-sex-with-me look that makes Blaine want to melt into a puddle of come on the floor.

If it were a few months prior he would've stayed without a second thought. Now he groans, feeling a little sick with himself and the secrets beneath his sleeves. "I would, but I skipped out last time... I'd feel terrible."

"Okay," Kurt says, frowning, but there's something mischievous in his eyes. "Just one more thing..." Within seconds Blaine is backed into the counter again, warm lips and promiscuous whispers tickling his skin and filling his head with double entendres. He barely makes it out alive, feeling like every atom in his body is overly sensitive to anything _Kurt_. He almost forgets to grab his phone and jacket on the way—luckily, he'd gotten mostly dressed before. He feels like a totally normal twenty-year-old when he steps out the door, lips still tingling from his boyfriend's very memorable kiss goodbye.

It ends almost immediately, though, when he looks at his phone and sees that the most recent message is the one from Annabel the day before, the one he still hasn't replied to:

_...maybe we can study together this weekend_

Though he knows that slow, delicious Saturday morning sex _cannot happen_, he almost turns around and walks back inside. The only thing that keeps him from going is the painful press of his fingers into his left bicep as a reminder of why he can't. He rushes down the stairs and out the door without looking back, shivering as he steps out into the cold, unforgiving October rain.

When the first drops hit him he stops, staring out into the street and thinking of where he'd rather be. He purses his lips and runs his hands over his face as it screws up in a combination of self-contempt and a kind of uncontrollable despondency. "Fuck, fuck, _fuck._"

He takes off down the sidewalk, pushing by people with no destination in mind until he finds himself outside the café down the street. But he can't bring himself to go inside, thinking of all the times he has been there with Kurt or for Kurt. He ends up walking all the way to NYU in the rain, meandering across Lafayette and Broadway and past abandoned benches and eventually into Washington Square Park, feeling numb and unreal despite how soaking wet he is.

Watching as tree branches above him are tossed about by the wind, Blaine shrinks into himself. Shivers wrack his body, not so much from the cold as from an obstinate, malicious thought: _how much longer before Kurt gives up on me?_

_Before I give up on myself?_

_Monday, October 29._

He finds himself staring at the ceiling for hours Sunday night and forcing his eyes open because he doesn't deserve rest. His excuses to Kurt from the weekend repeat over and over in his head:_ I told Annabel I'd meet her at eleven; I'm kind of in the middle of this_; _sorry, I'm just so tired_; _I really don't feel like sex right now, Kurt_. To make things worse, he should've worked more. He isn't prepared for the Psych lecture later today and mid-terms are coming up and he has hardly done any math and he wants to hurt himself but has no energy to get out of bed to do it. It's five o'clock Monday morning when he finally allows himself to drift into sleep.

"Blaine?" He turns on his side and presses his face farther into his pillow, muffling the world outside. "Blaine." _I don't want to get up, please, damn it I don't want to be here, don't want to be anything at all_—"Blaine!"

"Mm." He scrunches his face up and can't quite open his eyes.

"It's almost half past eight, honey." _I don't care I don't care I don't care—_"You're usually up by now... you need to get up if you want to get to class on time." The buzzing in his head gets louder. _No, no, I can't do this, I can't, can't, just fucking _can't_—_"Are you sick or something?

He ends up sitting across from Kurt at their kitchen table, avoiding his eyes and staring vacantly into space. He feels empty, like a crumbling shell, his insides echoing and putting him on the verge of tears. He doesn't speak or make a move to eat, not trusting himself to do either one reliably.

"Blaine, I'm getting worried." _Just stop, please, I can't right now, can't deal with this. _"What's going on?"

"I just, um... I'm really tired; I didn't sleep well last night. And I have a bad headache. I can't—I just don't feel good. Think I'm coming down with something." _Bullshit. _He purses his lips, glancing down at the toast Kurt has hardly touched (_he doesn't eat when he's worried, my fault he's worried_), and wills his voice not to crack. "I think I'll skip Psych. I probably couldn't pay attention anyway."

Kurt looks surprised; Blaine only skips when he's extremely sick. "Okay, if you're sure. I really hope you feel better. Lemme make you some tea..."

An hour later he's in bed again, exhausted but with eyes wide open, staring at the door to the living room. _Get up, do it now, you'll feel better, _the sinister part of his mind prompts, and he can only hold out for so long. He staggers to the kitchen at eleven, to the drawer where he keeps the razor he pretends is for opening boxes.

He draws seven red lines on his skin and the part of him that was lost seems to slide back into place. Within minutes he is back in bed, drifting into a peaceful sleep. His last thought is an idle observation, one that makes his skin crawl: _I don't want to wake up. I don't want to wake up ever again._

_Wednesday, October 31._

"I vant to suck your blood!" Blaine makes grabby hands, sways on the spot, and grins wolfishly, showing off a pair of too-white fangs.

Kurt shakes his head as he locks their apartment door behind them, giggling to reveal a matching set of sharp teeth. "Not if I do it _virst._" He tackles Blaine and presses him up against the door, laughing breathlessly against his neck, clearly too drunk to care that it's quite a task to give someone a hickey with fake teeth. Blaine just groans and lets his eyes fall shut, reveling in the sensation and the closeness.

It's kind of ironic that their Halloween costumes this year are technically dead people. Regardless, Kurt definitely fits the bill for a vampire. Blaine had called him stunning the moment he saw him with his hair swept back and his lips starkly red against smooth pale skin, a dark cloak draped over his broad shoulders.

And _oh_, okay, maybe hickeys are possible with fangs. Wait—what? It hits Blaine that neither of them are wearing fangs anymore, Kurt's teeth no longer oversized and plastic, but before it can really sink in something else occurs to him; when did they start making out?But _shit_, he loves it when Kurt does that with his tongue, mapping out the inside of Blaine's mouth with relish, and his nimble fingers are digging into his hips in the best way.

Even through the haze of too much alcohol, a dark desire pulls at Blaine's subconscious. Any brain-mouth filter he'd possessed had left with his fourth beer so the words tumble out freely, low and rough. "I want you to fuck me." He flips them, taking control, and presses Kurt against the door, needing to memorize the way he responds for when he doesn't have this anymore. Muscles tense against him and Kurt's breath hitches as he nuzzles by his ear, nibbling the smooth skin and running his hands up his boyfriend's sides. "_Please_, I need you, Kurt."

"_God_ yes." Within seconds Kurt's lips are moving hungrily against his own, his hands threaded through his hair, and they're stumbling together to a bed that has never seemed farther away. In a few minutes they've finally managed to strip their costumes off—along with the rest of their clothes—and have fallen together onto the comforter, Blaine first and Kurt a moment after, covering his body like a safeguard.

Kurt fumbles in the bedside drawer for their lube, almost but not quite coordinated. When he leans close again something in the mood changes in a way Blaine doesn't like. Kurt kisses him languidly as he gently nudges his legs apart and slides in first one finger and then two, hardly stretching him at all yet. He's clearly trying to be careful, but Blaine doesn't _want_ careful. He wants drunk and rough and care_less_. And he says so.

"But I don' wanna hurt you." Even in his inebriated state, Kurt knows Blaine needs to be prepped more. This is his first time bottoming in almost two weeks.

"It's okay, I don't care. Just—_fuck me_." He clenches his jaw and gets a strong grip on the covers, soft and pliable against his fingertips. Waiting. _Please hurt me. I need you to._

Kurt takes a shaky breath and bites his bottom lip, pupils dark and shining in the shadowy room. If he was a more receptive drunk he might've picked up on what Blaine is really trying to do, might've stopped and seen the resolute, almost desperate self-loathing in his boyfriend's eyes and asked why. But Kurt has never been a very receptive drunk. "Okay."

The stretch burns more than Blaine expects, pain winning out over pleasure for a good minute. He's glad for the darkness of the room to hide his tears, because Kurt can't stop even if part of him wants him to. When Kurt's done teasing and starts fucking Blaine in earnest, hitting his prostate, he groans and presses his heels against Kurt's back, urging him _faster, harder, deeper_. It's hot and sweaty and desperate and perfect and he never wants it to end, the burning ache and tingling pleasure intermingling until he's writhing beneath his boyfriend. He can feel _everything_, every slide of skin against skin, Kurt above and around and inside him, and the sensory overload makes him forget all dark thoughts. They come at almost the same time and draw it out, moving in what feels like slow motion on their alcoholic highs. They breathe each other in as the waves throb through them and then fade away.

Blaine has trouble falling asleep that night. The aftermath aches more than he's willing to admit, but what really keeps him up is an incessant question; _what if that was the last time?_ He holds tight to the love of his life beside him and tries to let drunken tiredness take over, giving into the selfish fantasy that he'll have Kurt forever.

_Friday, November 2._

When he steps out of the shower Friday morning Blaine loiters. He leaves his prepared clothes in a neat pile by the door and turns to examine his reflection, hoping to waste more time.

Today is his psych midterm. He's been nervous about it all week, but for some reason right now it feels incredibly inconsequential. So inconsequential, actually, that he doesn't know why he's dealing with it—or anything, really. It's all too much effort. He's putting off breakfast with Kurt for just that reason; lying is a strain. Blaine wishes more than anything to be normal again, to flirt and smile and show Kurt how fucking_ important_ he is to him like a decent boyfriend would. But he can't. He knows he looks low today, eyes dark and vacant, and he can't let Kurt see that. He can't let him realize there's a reason that they've only had sex drunk lately. Can't let what is probably the end of their relationship be any less bright than the beginning.

For what might be the first time Blaine really _looks_ at his left arm, holding it to the light. The cluster of straight lines is incredibly obvious against his skin, white and pink and red in all their various stages of healing. They're strangely fascinating to look at, particularly the deeper scars. A few of them healed over in a way not very different from stitches, shining skin bound across the gaps like silky thread. Without really thinking about it Blaine starts counting. He gets to thirty-seven before he loses track, eyes aching from the strain of focusing up close for so long.

Were Kurt to really see all of them, Blaine knows he would have no excuse. There is no way he could explain away such an oddly organized cluster of cuts, particularly so many. He lets out a shaky sigh; _all the more reason to hide until the end._

Back when he was a freshman in high school, hiding hadn't seemed like an issue. He made sure he could wear all of his T-shirts and not let anything show. Strangely enough, the reason he'd stopped cutting had been sports. He signed up for Track at the beginning of the year, which meant that he would have to wear the tank top uniform at meets when they started in the spring. The idea of someone—particularly his brother and his bullies—noticing his cuts terrified him so much that he curbed his habit in early January. Of course, the Sadie Hawkins dance in February pretty much decided for him that he wouldn't be running Track after all.

Now, though, there's nothing forcing him to show his arms. The weather is progressively getting colder in New York as winter approaches, which only makes cutting easier. He has nothing holding him back.

Except Kurt. Brave, perfect, wonderful Kurt, always comforting and forgiving and understanding, giving him a reason to stick it out. At McKinley first and now here, New York and college.

"Blaine, you okay in there?" Kurt's voice snaps him back to the loudness of stark reality. He calls out a quick reply, rushing to pull on his V-neck undershirt, a green and white striped sweater, and light wash jeans. He ignores the sticky feeling of cotton, wool and polyester clinging to his wet skin and starts to dry his hair so he can gel it and get going.

It occurs to him as he makes his way out of the bathroom that he has been thinking in terms of the end. Logically, though, he knows Kurt wouldn't break up with him. Kurt loves him and he loves Kurt; they're there for each other through thick and thin. _'I'm never saying goodbye to you.' _Damn it, Kurt is the _love of his life_.

_But at the rate things are going,_ he thinks darkly, offering Kurt a lopsided smile and a kiss upon entering the kitchen, _my life isn't going to last much longer. _At that thought Blaine almost trips, heart thudding heavily in his chest. _Oh god, I know I hate this, but do I really—would I actually try to—_

The answer blares in his head like a disaster warning. Part of him wonders if it's been there all along, lurking, waiting for a time when he'd acknowledge it. But mostly he wonders if they actually threw away that big bottle of sleeping pills.

_Sunday, November 4._

The test went as well as it could have, really; psychology is one of his favorite subjects and he spent a reasonable amount of time studying. With it over Blaine spent the rest of Friday and all of Saturday avoiding Kurt—and everyone else—as best he could, saying he needed to study for his other mid-terms and trying to keep conversations short and vague. Somehow he's certain that if he lets his boyfriend get any closer he'll sense the ominous intent that has quickly become all he can think about. He has razors ready, and in case that doesn't work there are four kinds of pills and even some alcohol spread innocently around the apartment. They taunt him through Saturday, make him edgy. By that night the anticipation has left everything surreal—can this really be the end? He's really getting out?

_Always a coward, taking the easy way out,_ some part of him sneers, but he can't bring himself to care. This is it. This is what he deserves, what he should've done a long time ago, and then no one will be bothered by him anymore. (And neither will he—a miraculous thought.) He has it all planned out; he writes a careful goodbye note Saturday afternoon with a certainty that he'll do it that night, after Kurt is asleep. After all, Sunday _is_ the day of rest.

Oh, the irony.

He and Kurt go to bed a few minutes after midnight on Sunday morning. They lie under the covers like they always do, legs tangled and bodies pressed close, all warmth and comfort in each other's arms, but suddenly he finds it hard to swallow around the lump in his throat. (_Is this goodbye? We promised; _I _promised_.) He squeezes his eyes shut against the pull of tears and clutches Kurt close to him one last time, breathing him in. Kurt must not be quite asleep yet because he squeezes back, nuzzling against Blaine's neck with a fond smile and filling him with a familiar and entirely different pull of affection that makes him incredibly content and so—so fucking _angry_. Thiswasn't supposed to happen.

Because he'd thought about what he'd be escaping, but he hadn't even _considered_ what he'd miss.

He's beginning to compose himself when something—a rather insignificant something—pushes him over the edge. Or rather, pulls him back from it. It's a low mumble from his boyfriend, soft but sure against his collar bone: "Love you, Blaine."

And suddenly he's seeing Kurt waking up alone, probably expecting to find Blaine making breakfast in the kitchen or something equally innocent, like any other Sunday morning. Maybe hoping to surprise him with a hug or a kiss or even to have the slow weekend sex Blaine has put off for weeks. And being greeted by a dead body in the next room.

_Blaine's_ dead body.

His _body_.

Blaine knows what he wrote in his letter, about Kurt not blaming himself and moving on, but it hits him with a sudden clarity that that's total bullshit. He can pretend he has nothing to lose, but the person in his arms is proof that it's a lie. And goddammit, no matter how pathetic and self-pitying he is, he knows it goes the other way, too; Kurt loves him, _needs_ him. It would break him if he knew Blaine gave up on his watch. Because _fuck_, what would Blaine think—what would he _do_—if Kurt did the same? If he woke up one morning to find Kurt fucking _dead_ in their apartment, having _killed himself_ because he _wasn't happy with Blaine_?

How could he go on after something like that?

_I wouldn't. I would never be the same. I would blame myself every day, thinking about what I could've done. I just—I wouldn't._

So how can he expect Kurt to fare any better?

Moreover, how can he consider leaving something so damn perfect, a person who makes him feel so much that he can't think and all he wants is to know that he's okay, that he's close and he'll never belong to anyone else? He loves Kurt more than life itself, so it shouldn't matter what kind of shit he's going through. Kurt is worth a thousand times more.

_Oh god. Shit, Kurt. If only you knew. I was really going to kill myself. Suicide note and all._

_Well. So I'm not going to kill myself. Fuck. _Somehow Blaine feels even shittier than before, knowing he's got to keep living in the same dark place with the same fucked up thoughts. And he's guilty on top of that, because he has Kurt and since when is that not enough? Since when is dying a better option?

That's when it occurs to him. It starts as a miniscule thought but slowly grows until he can't ignore it. Yes, Kurt is worth a thousand times more, and Kurt deserves to be happy. He can't possibly be happy right now, with Blaine avoiding him and being an ass at every opportunity, leaving him hurt and frustrated. If Blaine breaks up with Kurt, he'll be able to find someone who will make him truly happy. Someone to love who can love him back with every ounce of his being, no secrets to hide. Sure, there'd be heartbreak at first, but Kurt would heal. His connections to Blaine would fade. And when Blaine happened to commit suicide a little while later, Kurt wouldn't feel guilty. He could be sure it wasn't because of him. He'd probably hate Blaine, anyway, for being such an ass and breaking his heart. So he would move on. He'd be _happy_.

In his skewed state of mind, Blaine is sure this is his best option. He'd have no reason to stay if he didn't have Kurt. It's foolproof, and it seems fairly logical. It also hurts just thinking about it, even more than the idea of leaving Kurt behind with the way things are. The only question is: _can I do it?_

_How has this become my life?_

He's ridiculously glad that Kurt's asleep—it's 12:38, he acknowledges, so he's been thinking about this a long time—because there are tears leaking into his pillow and he has no excuse right now.

_Just thinking about breaking up with you after a five year long relationship so I can kill myself and not leave you feeling like shit afterwards._

The lump in his throat has gotten worse and he can feel unexpressed anguish building, tearing at his insides and making him tense. He manages to suppress it until he has crept out of Kurt's embrace to the couch in their living room, where he sits with his head in his hands. Dry sobs shake his frame for a moment and then he's holding himself still, breathing deeply and trying not to think at all, ignoring the fact that there is a constant stream of warm tears leaking through his fingers. He remembers the note and the razor and the pills and thinks _maybe I can cut, just a few times, just to feel a little less dead inside—_but he finds that he can't make himself move, so he stays. Blaine thinks about cutting deeper than ever, slicing through veins and feeling himself start to fade away, and then the quiet of being gone. But he stays.

_Can I do it?_

An indeterminable amount of time passes before he's abruptly pulled out of himself by a comforting weight on the couch beside him and a worried hand on his knee. "Blaine? What's wrong?"

It hadn't even occurred to him that Kurt might wake up.

"I—I'm fine, I just—" _I'm supposed to be dead right now. Why couldn't you let me die? _He lifts his head, wipes a hand across his eyes self-consciously, and says the first excuse that comes to mind. "I had a nightmare. It's stupid."

Kurt's chin drops softly onto his shoulder, and his breath is comfortingly warm against Blaine's neck. "Oh, come on. They never are. You wanna tell me, or...?"

Blaine sighs, squeezing his eyes shut and concentrating on the tears dripping from his eyelashes. After a moment he settles on an answer. "It was... I woke up and it was Sunday—this morning, I guess—and you weren't in bed. And I thought you were probably making breakfast or something, you know, so I walked out here, and you were—" _Not dead_, he thinks, _something else_, and settles on the next worst thing. "I was so sure it was real. You just... you were packing your stuff. And you started saying all these terrible things." This is starting to sound eerily similar to a dream he had recently, but he can't stop now. Kurt is rubbing encouraging circles into his left palm, and his broad shoulder against Blaine's feels like moral support. "And I—_stupidly_—I believed you."

"What—" Kurt's voice hoarse enough that he has to clear his throat, a sign he's more distressed than he's letting on. "What did I say?"

"Well... I don't know. Insults. How I'm worthless, pathetic, a failure who doesn't deserve you, and—" He swallows, but the lump in his throat stays. At this point he's not lying at all, only remembering. It's almost worse being so vulnerable. "And you never loved me, shit like that. Like I said, it was stupid. I shouldn't've let it get to me." He laughs harshly, hating the desperation in the sound.

"Don't be so hard on yourself, it's totally okay. _Hey_. Look at me." He doesn't, only bites his lip and stares at doorway to their kitchen, empty and inviting. Razor in the drawer, waiting, waiting_. Can I do it? When will I do it? _"_Blaine_." Kurt puts a hand on his cheek and turns his face toward him, and suddenly he's staring straight into searching blue eyes that glint in the dark. "You don't actually believe that, do you?"

"What, that you never loved me? Course not."

"Not that. You know." _Oh, hell._ "That you're—that you don't deserve me. How you said it, you just... I know you, Blaine." Kurt's eyes are still latched onto his and Blaine feels magnetized to his gaze, unable to look away. "You know that's not true, right?"

_Fuck—why this, of all things? _Kurt always seems to get to the heart of Blaine's issues without even trying, and he's done it again. There's a moment during which he feels strangely breathless, unable to summon any words. When he finally manages to speak he gives a rather pathetic answer. "Um. Well, yeah. I—yeah, I know."

There's a terrifying pause characterized only by questioning blue eyes. Blaine shifts uncomfortably. After a few seconds Kurt slowly leans in and kisses him, carefully, like he's trying to get a message across. Blaine kisses back, savoring the tingling feeling and the sweet minty taste and the warmth of Kurt's lips, thinking again in terms of the end: _how many more till the last one? _When Kurt pulls away to talk his voice is soft and pensive, almost sad, despite the accusatory nature of his words. "I thought we were past this. You think you're not good enough for me."

"No, I—" Something in Kurt's eyes stops him. "I don't know. Sometimes." _God, I love him so much. How could I leave him?_ He glances down to where their hands are clasped tightly and looks back up to his boyfriend, who is watching him worriedly. Blaine frowns even as his stomach flips. _But Kurt shouldn't have to deal with this_.

"I don't think I even have to say this, but you _are_. More than just good enough—you're _everything_ to me, with all your mistakes and quirks," Kurt says fondly, a smile pulling at his mouth, eyes glowing with an emotion Blaine can only categorize as love. "Especially those; you wouldn't be you without them." Blaine chuckles and bites his bottom lip, unable to look away from Kurt's intense gaze. "I know how you get, Blaine. Like you have to impress everyone all the time. But you deserve _everything_ you have."

_Would you say that if you knew how many hours I spend doing nothing at all, wanting to hurt myself, to leave this world altogether? Would you still think I deserve this if you knew how many times I've proven that I don't? What would you say if you knew?_ All he can feel is the heat of Kurt's body beside him, the strength of his hand in Blaine's between them, entwined like they've never known anything else. _Fuck. I'm not brave enough—strong enough—to ruin this. I can't. I need to at least try to be better, to be who he needs me to be. What the fuck is _wrong_ with me if I can't—_

"Blaine, please."

He lets out a long breath, struggling to think clearly and not wanting to speak. "Sorry. I know I'm only... being insecure, but sometimes..." He pauses, wondering whether he should risk it, and eventually he decides he might as well. "Sometimes I think maybe you'd be better off without me. You know?"

The response is immediate. "No, _fuck _no_. _I'd—Blaine, I'd be a fucking _mess_ without you. Thick and thin, remember? Bad days or not, in the end I'll always be happier _with you_. Because we have so many _good _days_, great _ones." After a moment Kurt shrugs and adds, a bit bashfully, "And I hope you're happier with me, too."

He can't help but grin a little at that. "Of course. I mean, I've said before, you're the best thing that's ever happened to me, hands down." After a moment he laughs shakily, running his free hand through his unruly hair. _It'll be okay. It'll be fine. _"Look, I'm really sorry about this, it's like... one in the morning, and I'm probably only saying all of this 'cause I'm so exhausted." He pauses. "And it's _Sunday_."

Kurt laughs. "Yeah, you chose a _really_ good time to have a nightmare."

_Thanks. It seemed like a pretty nice time to die._

_Shut the fuck up. You can do this. _But imagining that there's no way out and knowing it for sure are two very different things. _Back to where I was before._

_Just remember Kurt. The things you have, not what you don't._

_Not what you'll never be._

_Don't be so pathetic! Pitying yourself won't do a damn thing! Just fucking—_

"Stop."

"What?"

"I can see it on your face, Blaine. Please, I can't stand knowing you're thinking stuff like this." _Fuck, if only you knew what I've been thinking lately. _"Just try, for me. It's not healthy."

He opens his mouth to protest, but Kurt's stern look makes any objections die before they can reach his lips. After a moment he sighs, avoiding his boyfriend's eyes in an attempt at placation. In a tired voice he murmurs, "I'm trying."

Kurt is silent for a moment, considering. He traces his hand along Blaine's jaw and Blaine leans into it, closing his eyes and concentrating on the gentle touch. Kurt's voice is just as soft and gentle when he finally speaks. "D'you think it'd help if... would you let me show you?"

He blinks his eyes open, confused. "Show me? What do you mean?"

Kurt leans in a little closer, gaze flickering down to Blaine's lips and up to his eyes, searching for something. "How much you mean to me," he mutters, voice tinged with longing, smiling eyes locked on Blaine's. "How much... I need you. I don't think I've shown you in a while, not really." Blaine's breathe hitches with Kurt's proximity. But it's dark right now, so he's safe. His secrets are safe. And he can't deny how much he wants Kurt, if only to feel him close. This night is taking a turn in a completely unexpected direction. (_You always zig when I think you're about to zag_.) But he feels far too exposed before Kurt, even in the dark, with so many issues close to the surface. So he smirks.

"Well, maybe, I donno..."

"_Blaine_." Kurt swallows, Adam's apple bobbing as he searches for more words, but in the end his blazing eyes tell Blaine everything he could ever have to say and more. He wants to do what they didn't on Halloween, wants to show him why he shouldn't even consider leaving. As Kurt moves closer, withdrawing his hand from Blaine's so that he can place them on either side of him, Blaine shifts forward and reaches out to pull his boyfriend in, hands at home on Kurt's hipbones. There's no room for joking or excuses anymore. When their mouths are just inches apart Kurt hovers uncertainly, waiting for affirmation. "Please."

Blaine takes a shaky breath and forgets about his scars, the dried tears on his cheeks, the plan for tonight that Kurt has managed to pull apart piece by piece without even realizing it. He forgets until all that's left is Kurt. "Okay."

Then Kurt's lips are on his, coaxing his mouth open, giving and taking and making him forget his own name. It's giving in to what he's been avoiding all this time, intimacy and closeness and tumbling together onto a cotton comforter, feeling and knowing and remembering and forgetting. And with Kurt pulling him apart all over again, finding all insecurities and destroying them, loving every part of him that he can find in the dark early hours of the morning, a distant part of Blaine thinks, _maybe this time. He doesn't have to find out and it'll get better and I can be okay again. Maybe this time._

But the lights are still off, the scars are still there, the razor is still waiting, and there's still a goodbye letter on the floor under their bed.

Unfortunately, Blaine has forgotten about that, too.


	6. don't get too close, it's dark inside

**A/N: I can't thank you guys enough for the heartfelt reviews (and mnemy, that was most certainly not a tl;dr!) I've tried my best to be honest in this fic to make it as realistic as possible, and if it has helped you that makes me so happy. The main message I want to convey is just that all pain matters, however meaningless you may think it is, and that it's crucial that you get help. And whoever you are, whether you've reviewed or not, it means a ton that you've read up to this point, so thank you for sticking with me through all the angst (and time)!**

**The chapter title is from "Demons" by Imagine Dragons, which is a phenomenal song, so you should, you know. Go listen to it, or something. ;) I know the wait has been insane, but hopefully this chapter will make up for it. Enjoy!**

_Monday, November 5._

When Blaine wakes up on Monday morning, the world is heavier than ever. He'd spent Sunday as if on a sustained high, more alive than he'd felt in a while—at least, more alive for a longer period of time. It'd been a brief glimpse of clarity outside the bell jar, spending the whole day with Kurt as he practiced a song for an upcoming performance, but on Monday it suddenly occurs to him that the feeling was probably just what happens after near-death experiences. Just like how he'd felt when he'd "quit" cutting for the first time: bright and weightless. _I'm practically fucking bipolar_, he thinks as he gains consciousness, listening to Kurt shuffling about in their kitchen. _Pathetic_.

And what had happened to him—or what he'd done to himself, more like—hardly even counted as a fucking _near-death_ experience anyway. He'd thought about killing himself and then decided he couldn't, decided he wasn't even strong enough to end it. What a goddamn miracle.

Yes, Monday brings real life back with it, brings all of the schoolwork and anxiety and worthlessness back, and it crashes onto his shoulders with a half a dozen texts about where he's planning to study for his bio midterm tomorrow and at least three too many messages from a worried brother.

He deletes all of the ones from Cooper and grits his teeth as he shoves the phone into his schoolbag with the rest of them. He hadn't even thought about the midterm the past few days. He'd been expecting that he'd be _dead_ today. _What a lovely thought_, he thinks distantly, and is so caught up in this morbid idea that he hardly notices Kurt when he appears in front of him.

"Well, good morning." His boyfriend's eyes glint a little with his smile as he speaks, and Blaine almost doesn't reciprocate when he leans in and kisses him softly. But Kurt's proximity, his smiling lips and his body heat pressing against Blaine's along with his hands on Blaine's hipbones, bring all of Sunday back to him in a rush. Why can't he keep that feeling alive? He's being far too pessimistic; he just needs to study today. That's all. He has one class, and then he can study for bio, and it'll be fine. He needs to get on with his life, right? That's what he promised himself—promised _Kurt_, in a way—that he'd do.

So he pushes down the ache and smiles against Kurt's lips, and by the time he gets to NYU later that morning and starts setting up a time to study bio with Zach and Annabel, Blaine has decided to be okay.

After all, what alternative does he have?

_Tuesday, November 6._

The final actually goes alright, as far as Blaine is concerned. He'd spent a few hours studying everything on Monday after class and cramming with Kurt the morning of as Kurt crammed for a music theory midterm of his own. When he gets back to their apartment at half past three in the afternoon, his boyfriend is waiting with coffee and congratulations.

"So, how do you think it went?" Kurt looks up from the counter as he talks; he's pouring half and half into his own coffee.

"Not too shabby, I think. I don't really want to think about it, actually." Blaine cringes slightly in emphasis but ends up grinning at his boyfriend all the same. For once, he's actually feeling normal. And it feels good.

"I totally see where you're coming from. I have no _fucking_ clue how I did with music theory. Let's just celebrate getting them over with."

There's a strangely satisfying clink of coffee mugs and an even more satisfying warmth as they drink in unison. "God, I love warm drinks in cold weather."

"I know, right? _So_ good." Kurt moans in a way that makes Blaine flush, raising his eyebrows at him. "What? Oh, sorry for turning you on. It was an accident, honest!"

He shakes his head and swallows and crosses his legs conspicuously, making Kurt laugh. _I'd listen to that laugh forever_, Blaine thinks, and hopes that maybe he can.

They end up sprawled on the couch together watching Daily Show reruns, both in T-shirts and sweatpants and both very relaxed. Blaine's just starting to think that maybe the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach will fade completely after a while, that he can force it away with Kurt's chest against him and Kurt's breath on his neck and Kurt's left hand tracing over his skin mindlessly and their hands entwined on warm blankets between them, when it happens.

He feels the touch on the scar before Kurt speaks, and it jolts through him like electricity, a reminder of what he still wants and can't let himself have.

"Shit, Blaine, what's this from? It looks like it must've been really deep...jeez."

Kurt's head turns as he sits up slightly, forcing Blaine up as well. Suddenly the proximity is suffocating.

"Um... what're you talking about?" He knows exactly what Kurt is talking about. The scar he touched is the lowest one, the pinkish red line at the top of his left forearm. He's reminded sharply of the guy from the gym, the offer to find a therapist.

"This scar here. How did you get it?" Kurt's eyes are worried and inquisitive, and there's a little crease between his eyebrows that Blaine needs to eradicate. Now.

He scrambles. Any fucking excuse will do. _Anything_.

"Uh...I think I...I'm not sure, actually." _Think, you fucking moron, _think. "It was probably from when we were first unpacking my stuff. You know, with the box cutters? I think I might've nicked myself a few times when I was cutting the tape."

"Nicking yourself is kind of an understatement, Blaine. This must've bled a lot. It's weird that I didn't notice it earlier. Why didn't you mention it?"

_Why did you have to notice it now? _"I donno," he mutters, shrugging. "It didn't seem very important." _Please forget it,_ he thinks, and leans over a little to press his lips to the skin of Kurt's neck as a manifestation of the thought. Mutters against his skin in his roughest (and, as he knows from experience, most distracting) voice: "It was stupid of me, really. Didn't want to worry you." Then he adds, just for emphasis, "It's not important."

Kurt chuckles breathlessly, says "Okay, you win. We don't have to talk," and then tugs on the front of Blaine's T-shirt to draw their mouths together. Blaine sighs in relief against his boyfriend's lips and pushes himself up with his arms until he's on top, pinning Kurt to the couch with his body. He hums against his boyfriends lips when he groans and makes a note in the back of his mind to put on a long sleeved shirt at the first chance he gets.

Kurt doesn't mention the scar again that night.

_Thursday, November 8._

By Thursday, Blaine is starting to struggle. The post-non suicide attempt high, as he has come to think of it, is completely gone four days later, and the only thing keeping him from falling back to rock bottom is Kurt and the moments he has with him. After he leaves in the morning to go to class, it's like the darkness descends again. He can't help but think about all the work he'll have to do that night, feel the anxiety and self-disgust pressing on his chest and making him ache for a blade. A lot of it has to do with how much he's hiding. The more he hides from Kurt the more shitty he feels, which makes him want to hurt himself more, and that only gives him more crap to hide. It's a fucking cycle, and it doesn't end.

Neither does the voice in the back of his head telling him he'd be better off dead. He's not sure whether he really wants to be dead, but there's no doubt that he feels, in every atom of his being, that he deserves it. He hasn't cut himself in over a week, either, and it's starting to build. He thinks that maybe if he does, the suicidal shit will tone down a notch, but he hasn't had many chances lately with Kurt so close. He's starting to worry that he won't get any.

And he would probably feel weird about thinking about cutting himself like it's a normal thing, but by this point it kind of is. It's all that's really keeping him sane, aside from Kurt.

Of course, Thursday is another slow day, and after taking too long to wake up and fighting to pretend and look alive to Kurt as they eat breakfast, he feels like absolute shit. He has a psych lecture today, though, which makes him think that maybe it can improve, so he tries to keep at least a halfway open mind.

It probably would have improved, too. But he hadn't read the new chapter yet, and when he walks into the lecture hall and sees the words written in large capitals on the whiteboard, he almost walks right back out.

The topic for the November 8 lecture is depression.

It's actually strangely interesting, in a morbid way, to listen to what are essentially his own thoughts about himself from another person's lips. This is why he took Personality, to get a better understanding of people and what makes them do the things they do, but the lecture hits a little too deep in some places. Fuck, who's he kidding? Every word of it is like a kick to his gut. When he walks out the door it feels like he has been strung out for the world to see. He wonders if any other students can tell, but most of his energy is concentrated on ignoring the sentence that's been repeating obnoxiously in his head since his professor first said it: "One of the most important life tasks each of us faces is understanding both who we are and how we feel about ourselves."

He wonders idly on the way to their apartment if he'll ever really feel okay about himself, if this will ever really go away. And if not, can he hide it? Long enough, at least, for the scars to fade? Shit, he'll have to stop cutting at some point, too, but it feels so impossible with the anxiety thrumming through his veins that he ignores the thought completely. It crosses his mind again that breaking up would be far easier, both for him and for Kurt, really, but his cowardice—his _emotions_—foil him again, and deep down he knows that they need each other too much to be okay on their own. They've split up before, obviously, but they've always been happier together than apart, as Kurt has said, and the attachment, the love, has only grown over the years.

_Love is keeping me alive_, he thinks, but it's darker and more painful than romantic. It should be romantic. _What the fuck is wrong with me? Why can't I just be a goddamn normal human being?_

He walks in the door with a heavy heart and clenched hands. His nails digging into his palms is a poor replacement for a knife, but he has nothing else. He can't give in. Not yet. If he can just last one more day, at least, maybe it'll fade. Right? _Maybe I can stop._

_But fuck. Fuck. Not yet. _When he hears Kurt's key slide into the lock, he decides that if he gets home first tomorrow, he'll cut.

Maybe he can release enough tension to set himself back to normal. _Maybe it'll be the last time, _he tells himself, because it feels a little less like giving in. It feels good, and it makes it a little easier to smile when Kurt opens the door.

_I'll cut tomorrow. That's what I'll do._

_Friday, November 9._

The _if_ in getting home before Kurt was more for his conscience than anything. Kurt is staying late because of a performance he and a few other students have been working on, so he shouldn't be home until around four thirty. Blaine gets there at just a few minutes before three thirty after rushing away from campus. He tries not to let the guilt swallow him up. It's the first time he has really thought through it before slicing himself open, and it feels almost as bad as cheating, somehow. Sneaking around behind Kurt's back, doing something he'd hate to know about—he can't even let himself think about it.

As it turns out, he doesn't really need to worry about that. He needs the pain so fucking badly that once he has pulled out a razor, all other thought just dissolves. The press of the metal against his skin is heaven even as self-loathing simmers in his gut along with it, and it's like getting drunk the way the blood bubbles up and spills over. _You deserve this you deserve this you deserve this_ repeats in his head like a mantra, along with a few choice insults and collections of swear words, as he slashes and slashes and slashes again at his upper left arm, and he loses track of time. Ten minutes pass—along with a significant cluster of fifteen or twenty cuts, give or take a few—before he has even thought about leaving the bathroom to glance at a clock.

He has dragged himself out of the punishment and self-hatred by around 3:45, but (unsurprisingly) it sticks to him like blood for a while after. He doesn't even bother to wipe away the streams of red on his left arm, safe in the knowledge that Kurt won't be home for at least another half hour.

He ends up sitting shirtless on the couch and waiting for the blood to dry, staring at the assortment of cuts he's created. It's incredibly gratifying to watch the blood leaking out of the lines he has drawn, and he focuses on the throbbing pain until he feels nothing else, until it drums in his ears like his own heartbeat.

Then he hears a key in the lock.

_Fuck fuck fuck fuck_—

Within seconds Blaine is in their bedroom, scrambling for the first shirt he sees, which turns out to be a white V-neck tee that he can only hope is clean. A glance at the digital clock beside their bed tells him it's only 4:00, but he scolds himself anyway. He shouldn't have been so careless acting like he had all the time in the world and Kurt is going to notice the darkness in his eyes because he always does and why is he such a fucking useless moron that he can't even cut himself right and—

And then Kurt is there.

_Everything is going to be fine._

"Hey, Kurt, what's up?" Blaine has managed to make it back to the couch, and is leaning on the back of it as casually as he possibly can.

"I got out early." Kurt flashes a wry smile and shrugs as he sets his book bag down by the door. "Apparently we didn't need to practice _Dancing Queen_ as much as we thought."

"Huh. Well, it _is Dancing Queen_." He shifts to one side a little bit, leaning more on his left arm to try to keep it out of Kurt's direct line of sight. It's still burning like hell, but the pain isn't so much good anymore as it is annoying. It doesn't belong in this context. "There's only so much you can do with the original number."

"You have a point." Kurt yawns and stretches as he walks into the kitchen to pull out a glass of water. When he disappears around the corner Blaine panics for a second, his mind racing to recall where he'd left the razor, but he calms down when he remembers that he already washed it off and hid it away in his dresser. "So," Kurt calls from behind the door of the fridge, "how'd _your_ day go? Is Calc just as annoying as always?"

_I finally cut myself for the first time in weeks,_ he thinks offhandedly. _But you got home early so I haven't cleaned up all the blood yet. _"It wasn't so bad, actually. I think I'm getting the hang of it, at least a little bit. Zach isn't making fun of me _quite_ as much as he was last week."

Kurt laughs brightly as he closes the fridge, and a moment later he emerges from the kitchen with a cup of water. "I guess that's a good sign." He takes a sip, and then adds: "Oh, and I've been meaning to ask you whether you wanted to...you're bleeding."

"What?" Blaine forces a confused expression onto his face. "No I'm not." _No I'm not no I'm not no I'm not._

"Yes you are. Your shirt." Kurt sets the cup down on the coffee table and starts to walk around the couch, looking concerned. A quick look down sends Blaine's heart into double time: the blood has started soaking through. There's a spattering of red on the sheer white sleeve of the T-shirt he'd pulled on so hastily, and a few darker red lines are visible beneath the sleeve, having dried on his skin after dripping down from the cuts. Why didn't he think of this when he was looking for a shirt?_ It's a fucking white T-shirt! How fucking stupid—fuck fuck _fuck_._

Kurt is just a few feet away now, having stopped before getting too close, probably because of how tense Blaine has become, ready to run away. To run and run and never ever look back, never admit to anything. "Blaine, come on." He looks worried, maybe even angry, his eyebrows furrowed and his jaw tighter than usual. "What happened? Did someone do that to you?"

_Yes. I did, because I don't deserve you._

"No, no—of course not. It's probably just a stain that was already there. I don't remember doing anything to myself or—" _Great fucking word choice, Anderson_. "Or anything. It must just be a stain." He pulls at the sleeve to cover more of the red and clenches his jaw when it makes the cuts sting. He'll change into another shirt, that's all, he'll get another one and slap on a Band-Aid or two and it'll be fine—

"_Blaine_." Kurt waits, and sure enough, Blaine looks up after a few seconds. Once their eyes meet, he finds himself unable to look away. He can feel Kurt searching, seeing right through him, realizing that he's lying, trying to figure out the truth and coming up short. He wants to disappear more than he thinks he ever has in his life. And that's saying something. "Blaine, it's okay. You don't have to—I'm not gonna be _mad_ because you're hurt." His eyes are so earnest. Blaine is starting to feel slightly nauseous. _Making myself sick._ "Just, please. Let me see."

Blaine opens his mouth to reply and promptly shuts it. Without even realizing what he's doing he takes a step back and clamps his right hand over the blood to _hide hide hide_ it. Somehow he manages to force his voice into a resolute calm through all the fear and self-hatred and shame. "No, it's really nothing. I'll just change." He looks away. "I'm fine. I'll just—"

He cuts himself off to turn around. Within seconds he's in their bedroom, searching for a sweater that he can hide in. He just needs to find something to pull on over the blood, then it'll be okay, Kurt will buy it. _He has to buy it._

But he doesn't get very far. Blaine could never make himself push Kurt away, and a firm hand on his shoulder freezes him on the spot. Before he can even begin to object, Kurt has pushed him down to sit at the edge of their bed and is holding him there firmly by his shoulders. Then he bends down to look him in the eye.

"Blaine." Kurt's voice is gentle, but his eyes are bright and nervous and unrelenting. "You're going to sit here, and I'm going to look at your arm. Okay?"

Numbly, Blaine realizes there's no getting out of this. If he tries to put it off any longer, Kurt will only push back harder. He blinks a few times, bites his tongue, stares a hole in the carpet below his feet, and finally relents with a soft "Okay."

His sleeve is pulled up, and he hisses as it comes unstuck from the open wounds on his skin. There's a murmured apology and then a sharp gasp from above him. "Oh my god."

He closes his eyes, wanting more than anything for this to be a dream. Fingers trail carefully over his skin, from his upper arm all the way down to the pit of his elbow, and he shivers instinctively at the touch. He can feel Kurt holding his breath, and when he finally opens his eyes again, he sees his boyfriend's jaw working rapidly in the corner of his vision. He stares harder at the carpet, wishing he could sink into it. Finally, after what feels like ten minutes but what is probably less than one:

"You've been cutting yourself? _Fuck_, Blaine." Blaine can practically hear Kurt's mind racing, trying to piece together an explanation. He doesn't dare affirm the question, but he can't really deny it either. He feels something inside of him sink, sink, sink, like a rock to the bottom of a lake. A tiny part of him had been hoping Kurt wouldn't realize what the cuts really were right away, but that hope is dashed now. He can lie indirectly, maybe, but not like this.

He concentrates on the movement of Kurt's chest as he takes a deep breath. In the back of his mind he realizes that he's been biting his tongue so hard he's almost drawing blood. Suddenly, the solution occurs to him. It's almost painfully obvious.

"Please, Kurt, just...hear me out, okay? It's—" He swallows, trying to keep the hoarseness out of this voice. "It's not really a big deal." He forces himself to look up into his boyfriend's eyes, but looks back down at his chest and the green and brown cardigan he's wearing after a few seconds. He can't stand the watery blue irises, the abject worry and disbelief swimming in them. _Fuck, he sees right through me_. But he goes on anyway. "It's just a coping mechanism. I do it when I get stressed. It's nothing to worry about, okay?" Another glance up, his eyes screaming _please just let this go_. "I just didn't want you to worry, that's all. I knew you would if you found out."

Kurt chuckles, but it's an empty sound. "Not a _big deal?_ What part of this _isn't_ a big deal?" Blaine purses his lips, trying to push down the tightness in his chest. "You're fucking _cutting_ yourself, Blaine! And what do you mean, _if_ I found out? Did you think you could hide this forever? How long have you been doing this to yourself?"

Blaine bites his lip now, clenching his jaw, but it doesn't do anything to push away the anxiety. Abruptly he notices that he's shaking his head minutely, but he can't summon the willpower to make himself stop. _Just stop, stop asking, leave me to my fucking self pity, fuck fuck why am I so fucking messed up this wasn't supposed to happen_—

"Hey." Kurt sinks down beside him on the bed and gently reaches out to cup his jaw, making him meet his eyes. "I'm sorry, but you can't trivialize this, okay? Don't try to pretend it's nothing, because it's _not_. I mean, look at your arm, all the blood...this is _not_ okay."

"I know," he murmurs exhaustedly, no longer even trying to avoid meeting his boyfriend's eyes. "I know it's not. I'm sorry, I just—I can't stand you seeing me like this, Kurt." His voice breaks at the end, and he ducks his head in shame. As an afterthought: "And it's really not as bad as—"

"_Blaine_."

"It really isn't, though! This was supposed to be the last time. I was gonna stop, I swear. I was getting better, finding other ways to deal with the stress, with school and everything." He clenches his jaw and swears at himself in his head. How did he let himself sound so broken? He can feel Kurt's gaze on him and it makes the pressure in his chest worse, makes him want to push his boyfriend away and run until his legs don't work anymore. There's nowhere to hide, and it's hell.

"It wasn't just the stress, was it? I know you, Blaine. Don't lie to me. It's not gonna work this time." Kurt's hand presses worriedly over his where it's clenched on the comforter between them.

_But I want to. I can't fucking stand this, Kurt. Can't stand you knowing what a fuckup I am._ But he's frozen. He bites his lip and shakes his head and can hardly breathe, let alone speak. After a second he manages to move to stand up, but a hand on his own tugs him back as soon as he's on his feet. Reluctantly, he turns back.

"Please, just talk to me."

He can't stand the desperate, pleading look in Kurt's eyes. "I'm sorry, I will, I just...I need to clean this up, okay? I'll be right back, I swear, I just," he falters, pulling his hand from Kurt's. "I'm sorry."

He manages to persuade his legs into movement, but it's like walking through sand. After a few seconds he's made it into their bathroom and closed the door behind him. He leans his palms against the counter and tries not to be sick, choking back a sob. _Safe_. It feels like he's floating in the brightness of the room, all the light reflecting off tile in a surreal way, like this could be a dream if he wished for it hard enough. He wants more than anything to get a razor and carve apologies into his skin for another hour.

But he can't, because _Kurt_.

_Kurt fucking knows_.

Blaine can't stop shaking, can't get his breathing back to normal, can't even fucking _move_, let alone attempt to clean away the blood. But he's not about to ask for help.

It turns out he doesn't need to. After what can't be much longer than a minute, a voice calls brokenly through the door: "Blaine? _Please_, I know you're hurting. Can I come in?"

He grits his teeth and struggles to swallow. "Fine," he says thickly, "come in."

He hears the door open, feels Kurt rest one hesitant hand on his shoulder and the other on the counter beside Blaine's white-knuckled one. "Hey, just breathe, okay? Just calm down. We'll talk later, don't worry about that, I don't care; I just want you to be okay. Just...you're fine, Blaine, just breathe." Distantly he wonders if Kurt even knows what he's saying, but the words don't really matter. Just the sound of his voice and his presence alone has already made him less tense.

After a moment Kurt turns on the tap, and then there's a tissue against Blaine's skin turning from white to pink. He hisses automatically at the sting and glances up at the mirror, focusing on the mess he has made of his arm. Then his eyes meet Kurt's in their reflection, apprehensive and bright blue-green. "Sorry," Kurt mutters, biting his lip as he lightly presses the tissue back against Blaine's skin, "I didn't mean to hurt you."

He winces at the apology and looks away. He wishes he could just dig his fingers into the cuts and never let the pain go. "It's fine."

Once the blood is mostly washed off, there's a pause. Blaine's breathing is shallow as he feels Kurt's fingers start to skim gently over the lines on his arm. "Jesus, Blaine. There are a lot of scars here." He nods minutely and turns to lean against the counter with his left arm, facing his boyfriend in defeat. From the corner of his eye he sees their reflection, Kurt standing straight and Blaine slouched, like all the life has been driven out of him. Sounding bewildered, Kurt adds: "I can't believe I didn't notice them."

He shrugs. "I've been...really careful about keeping them hidden." His voice cracks a little, so he pauses, then adds: "I didn't want you to see."

"What, because I'd make you stop?"

He knows the anger isn't really directed at him, but it still makes Blaine cringe. "No, I just...I was ashamed. Wouldn't you be?"

Kurt takes in a shaky breath, and when Blaine looks up he sees him with his hand over his mouth, watery eyes fixed to the collection of lines on Blaine's left arm. _Fuck_. Kurt only does this when he's really upset, and Blaine hates himself more than ever for making him feel like this. "Blaine, why would you—do you really feel that _shitty_ about yourself, that you'd—" Blaine's eyes widen. It's only after Kurt grabs his right wrist that he realizes he has taken a step back. "No, I'm sorry, I...we don't have to talk about it right now, I'm just..." Kurt falls silent, hesitating, and then takes a step closer, leaving about a foot between them. Blaine bites his lip as his boyfriend gently pulls his left arm up under the bathroom lights.

"Is the one I noticed before..." Kurt reaches down to touch the thick pink line on his forearm. "Was that you too?" Blaine nods again quickly, his jaw working, and when he glances up at Kurt the concern and _anguish_ on his beautiful features is like a stab to the gut. _Fucking worthless failure, god, Kurt, you don't know how much I really deserve it deserve it deserve—_"Hey, look at me."

And he does, finally. He really looks at his boyfriend, letting his gaze settle on his wide, worried blue eyes and the crease between his thin eyebrows and his usually perfect brown hair that's mussed up from his hands in it, starting to fall into his face (something that only happens when he's really fucking worried), and the tight line to his jaw and the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallows slowly, waiting, waiting because Blaine has fucked up his day, his _life_.

"Fuck, I'm sorry." He looks into Kurt's eyes and hopes he sounds sincere, hopes he can convince him that he's alright. "I'm a fucking idiot, can't even deal with normal stress the right way. I never wanted you to find out. I thought I was getting better, and this was supposed to be the last time and everything would be fine. And it is. It's really not as bad as you think; you don't have to worry. I'm stopping, okay?" Kurt is biting his lip, and Blaine can practically see the thoughts racing behind his eyes. "Kurt?"

"Okay, you're _not_ a fucking idiot, for starters." Blaine chuckles, avoiding the blinding warmth in Kurt's eyes. "And I'm glad that you're stopping, or trying, and I'm gonna help you as much as I can. But you can't just keep _pretending_, Blaine." He cringes, but Kurt plows on: "You always do that, try to cover things up and act like nothing's wrong, but you can't just suddenly be _okay_ after this. I want to talk more—later, but really _talk_, Blaine. I mean, this has obviously been going on for a while, and just, god. I didn't realize you had such a low opinion of yourself."

"It's not that I..." He swallows, faltering. _Pathetic_. But lying isn't really an option at this point.

"I'm not judging you. I just want to help."

"Yeah, I know. And I really appreciate it, I do, but right now can we please just..." _Just, something else. Anything else._

"Yeah, no, I'll bandage you up and then maybe you can put on a shirt so I can stop ogling you, and we'll, you know. Watch mindless TV or something for a while. It _is_ Friday, after all. Does that sound good?"

"Yeah, it does, actually." _Thank you_, he wants to say, but Kurt probably sees the gratefulness in his grin.

When they leave the bathroom a few minutes later the weight on Blaine's chest is gone, at least temporarily. Kurt always makes him feel better, of course, more real, more alive and worthy. But now the truth, however hateful, is out in the open, and though the thought of talking is a daunting one, he thinks that maybe Kurt will be able to help. No matter how little Blaine deserves it.

_That is, if I can make it through this weekend, _he thinks, but forces the thought down and replaces it with another; one that he can almost let himself believe is true:

_Everything is going to be fine_.


End file.
